


Reflections

by Guanin



Category: Far from the Madding Crowd (2015), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Doppelganger, Estrangement, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: Crowley should have left things alone. Of course this stranger with Aziraphale’s face was a human, not actually Aziraphale. Doppelgangers happened all the time. But Crowley was so wrecked from their parting eight years ago, so desperate to see him again, that the moment that this man crossed his path in the village street, Crowley called out in vain hope.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & William Boldwood
Comments: 36
Kudos: 89
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley should have left things alone. Of course this dark haired stranger with Aziraphale’s face was a human, not actually Aziraphale. Doppelgangers happened all the time. That Gabriel lookalike in the 13th century had almost discorporated him in shock. When had Aziraphale ever changed his hair color? Or grown a beard? Never, that was when. And the colors this person wore were completely wrong. A brown suit with a green waistcoat. Stylish, but Aziraphale only wore pure, light tones. But Crowley was so wrecked from their parting eight years ago, so desperate to see him again, that the moment that this man crossed his path in the village street, Crowley called out,

“Aziraphale?”

The man turned his head, halting, less at the name than upon noticing Crowley staring at him. 

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

The instant the man spoke Crowley kicked himself for being such a dunce. The man’s clipped tone and befuddled expression were not Aziraphale’s. Close. So very close. Even his voice was very like, but wrong, like a replica made from the wrong materials. Yet his face, his eyes, the tempting fullness of his lips. A master portrait artist couldn’t have accomplished a better likeness. Only his hair color and his height were different. This man stood an inch taller. His waistline was also a bit slimmer, now that Crowley took a good look. Aziraphale’s weight fluctuated, but he adored food too much to ever allow himself to be this thin. 

“Can I help you?” the man said in that British manner where his tone belied his polite words.

“No,” Crowley said, flushing with embarrassment. “I apologize. You look exactly like someone I know. It’s uncanny.”

The hostility lifted from the man’s face, his frown curious now.

“A relative, perhaps?”

“That’s very unlikely. He’s not from these parts. I apologize again. Have a good day.”

Before the man could say anything further, Crowley slunk away, walking as briskly as his legs could carry him. His breath seized in his chest, panting as if he’d run a mile uphill. He fought the urge to turn around and look at the man again. He wasn’t Aziraphale. The angel was miles away in London or Edinburgh or wherever he pleased, which was far away from Crowley. Crowley made sure of that by losing his temper when Aziraphale had suggested that they had been fraternizing, which felt like the entirely wrong word for his relationship with someone who insisted on maintaining a proper distance between himself, an angel, and Crowley, a lowly demon who would never be good enough for him. When the time came for Aziraphale to chose between Heaven and Crowley, he would choose Heaven. No question. He would leave Crowley in the dust to fend for himself, alone. 

Crowley was always alone in the end. Heaven didn’t want him. Hell would literally cut him to pieces if they had an inkling of Crowley’s little insubordinations and blatant treachery in consorting with an angel. Earth may be his home, but he was set apart from humanity. Only a mere handful of humans had ever earned the privilege of learning his true nature, the very few whom he could trust completely. Or so he’d thought. One of them was in Heaven now, unreachable. The others were in hell, but, in Crowley’s weak selfishness, he couldn’t bear to see them being tormented, so he hadn’t spoken to them since they died. 

Aziraphale hadn’t reached out to him since their argument. Neither had Crowley, but he had come close. He knew where Aziraphale lived, after all. It was cruelly nearby to his own residence. He would walk by sometimes, peer through the display windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale within. He had once, sweat beading his palms and his jaw clenched in despair. Aziraphale had his back to the window while he spoke to a customer, probably attempting to dissuade him from making a purchase. Why did Aziraphale even have a bookshop if he didn’t want to actually sell anything? Crowley could have gone in to ask him this yet again, but his courage failed him. Limbs shaking, he rushed out of there, barreling through the crowds, not stopping until he was four streets away. 

`````````````````

The human who was not Aziraphale was named William Boldwood. Crowley knew this because he asked around town for the identity of a certain well to do farmer with a salt and pepper beard. His station was obvious through the quality of his garments, and what other business would he be involved in living around here? Every landowner in the area had some sort of agricultural enterprise. Boldwood was forty-three, had never married, and was a bit of a laughing stock for being jilted by two separate women. The most recent case had only just occurred. Crowley could sympathize. Although, it seemed that Boldwood was very much sought after nonetheless by other single ladies in the parish. Boldwood just wasn’t interested in any of them. So he wasn’t the sort to simply follow social convention. That was refreshing. Nearly every wealthy man Crowley had ever met had been obsessed with continuing his legacy by producing as many sons as possible as fast as possible, even after primogeniture was established. The heir, the spare, the spare of the spare. They were as vital as air as far as these men were concerned. Boldwood’s posh house and vast holdings certainly placed him in their category. He could have had a wife and a troop of children ages ago if he wanted. Crowley almost wished that he had. That would have made him less intriguing. 

Not that Crowley needed more of an incentive than the man’s form and voice. Heaven, even his hands looked like Aziraphale’s. No doppelganger he’d encountered had ever been so similar. And the man had a pleasant singing voice, too. Aziraphale was hardly ever inclined to sing, but when he did, the beauty of his angelic gift brought tears of adoration to Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley lingered in Weatherbury for far longer than he should have, trying his utmost to catch another glimpse of Boldwood. It would be easy enough to spy on him at his estate, but stalking him would be a little much. Likewise, Crowley chickened out of visiting the grain market when Boldwood was sure to be there in case he was spotted. Boldwood was too well-bred to cause a scene, but Crowley would only have a slim chance at being able to get away without having to resort to miracles. He didn’t actually want to talk to him again. What would he say? Certainly not the truth. But if he wasn’t going to interact with him again, why was he sticking around? 

Days dragged by as he stove to figure that out without any success whatsoever. Instead of continuing on to Wales as he’d planned, he loitered in the streets of Weatherbury and the surrounding hills, an odd wanderer that began to get noticed.

It was this damned wandering that launched him face first in Boldwood’s path once again. It had been another dull, anxious day, relieved only by the pretty flowers growing by the country lane he trod on, when, beyond the curb ahead of him, Boldwood appeared astride a horse. Crowley stopped short, falling back a step in his surprise, embarrassing himself by gaping at Boldwood like he’d never seen a human in his life. 

Bless it all, that face. Those eyes. Never mind the grey-shot dark hair or the fact that Aziraphale would never ride a horse for leisure or wear so much brown. He felt Aziraphale before him, heard his beloved voice as the man spoke.

“We meet again.”

Crowley blinked, running the sounds back in his head and processing them into words. The displeased and wary tone was so like Aziraphale’s, too. 

“Yes,” Crowley forced the word out of his mouth. It came out all squeaky. “Small world. Good day to you.”

Raising his hand to his hat, Crowley hurried to go around Boldwood, but the man urged his horse to block his path. Crap.

“I’ve been told,” the man said, “that you’ve been asking about me in town. I would like to know why.”

Not moving an inch, Crowley looked up at Boldwood’s stern gaze and his knees weakened. His eyes weren’t the same shade. They were darker, more hazel. Yet the light gave them a certain gleam. 

“I was more curious about you than I originally thought,” Crowley said. “I apologize if I’ve disturbed you.” 

“Because I resemble someone you know?”

Crowley shrugged. 

“As I said, it’s uncanny. But I’ll be leaving town tomorrow, so there’s no need to worry about me.”

Boldwood responded by dismounting and coming over to stand before Crowley, reins in hand. Bless it all. Crowley could just befuddle Boldwood, coax him to be on his way while making him believe that it was his own idea, then Crowley could run away, return to London, and never see Boldwood again. 

Or possibly Aziraphale.

“Who is this person whom I resemble so greatly?” Boldwood asked.

Crowley didn’t move. 

“You say,” Boldwood continued, “that it’s unlikely that we are related, yet you seem very interested in me. Why is that?”

Crowley licked his bottom lip.

“He’s an old friend. And I said unlikely, not impossible. As I said, I was more curious than I originally thought. I apologize again. If you’ll let me through, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Crowley tried to sidestep him, but Boldwood blocked his path. 

“You have the benefit of my name,” Boldwood said. “I would like to know yours.”

Crowley suppressed a sigh. He drew himself up to his full height.

“Sir Anthony Crowley,” he said.

Now it was Boldwood’s turn to look taken aback. He floundered for just long enough to make his discomfort obvious, yet not embarrassing. 

“Sir Anthony?” he asked, uncertain.

It wasn’t a lie. Well, Queen Morgan had dubbed him Sir Crowley and not Sir Anthony, but close enough. 

“I like to keep a low profile when I travel,” Crowley said, assuming an air of quiet dignity as Boldwood’s social superior. “It’s relaxing. Usually.”

Sticking a hand inside his coat, he miracled a calling card with the proper title and his fashionable address in London. He handed it to Boldwood, who perused it with decreasing skepticism, which melted into chagrin and uncertainty.

“Forgive me, Sir Anthony,” Boldwood said. “I should not have pressed you so. But you must agree that you have not treated me fairly.”

A memory of Aziraphale’s final, disappointed glare flared in Crowley’s mind, almost making him flinch. 

“No, I haven’t.” Crowley really did sigh this time. “My apology stands. I should have asked you directly.”

Boldwood nodded in acknowledgment. 

“Thank you. Have you arrived at a conclusion as to whether I am related to your friend?”

“You’re not. Your resemblance is simply an odd coincidence.”

Boldwood’s downturned gaze was hard to interpret, although he looked more pensive than disappointed. 

“Well, then,” he said, rubbing the reins with his thumb. “I’m not blessed with a large family, so I can’t say that I’m surprised. That’s that, then. How about you, Sir Anthony? Do you have any family in these parts?”

“No family. I’m on my own.”

Except for a certain angel, who might not come around again. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Boldwood said. He did actually sound a little sorry. “You never married?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. 

“You’re fishing for the same information that I have about you.”

A satisfied grin tugged at the right corner of Boldwood’s lips. 

“It’s only fair.”

Crowley huffed a laugh.

“No, I never married. No wife. No kids. There was someone, but we didn’t part on the best terms. You know about that, don’t you?”

Empathetic understanding softened Boldwood’s eyes.

“I do. But allow me to rectify the inaccuracies of rumor. Miss Everdeen and I were never engaged.”

“But you did propose?”

Boldwood hesitated for a moment before bracing himself to reply.

“Yes. Unsuccessfully.”

 _”We may have both started out as angels, but you are fallen,”_ Aziraphale had said to distance himself from Crowley at the mere suggestion that they were alike.

“I know how that feels,” Crowley said, wincing in sympathy. 

A look of understanding passed between them. Crowley shifted on his feet. Having heart to hearts with men who looked like replicas of Aziraphale hadn’t been on his to-do list today. 

“Sir Anthony,” Boldwood said, “please allow me to invite you to dinner.”

Crowley frowned at him, then his lip curled in realization. 

“You want to get more information out of me before I try to sneak off again.”

A slight smile jerked on Boldwood’s lips. 

“It’s more proper than exchanging awkward snippets in the middle of a field.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Alright. Dinner it is.”

Crowley was really doing this? Sharing a meal with an avatar of Aziraphale, eating his food at his house, learning just enough about the man to further confuse his yearning mind? What little he knew was intriguing enough. Maybe it wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the physical form it came in, but the flare of interest burning in Crowley’s chest told him otherwise. A lesser man would have become belligerent, made a scene, maybe have even taken a swing at him. Boldwood had invited him to dinner, instead. How was Crowley supposed to say no to that? 

“I’m glad you accept,” Boldwood said, and he did look glad. “Are you still in the area tomorrow? It’s a little late in the day to do it today.”

“Sure. You’re not worried that I’ll take the opportunity to sneak out of town? My acceptance could just be a ruse.”

Boldwood’s smile widened. 

“So could my invitation. We’ll just have to trust each other.”

“A precarious prospect even among friends.”

“That’s true enough. But the interest in your eyes is good enough for me.”

Rubbing his horse’s neck, Boldwood mounted with far more grace than Aziraphale had ever exhibited, who tended to paw at the horse with all his might while struggling to get a leg astride it. An amused grin grew on Crowley’s face at the memory and the contrast of Boldwood both. 

“Tomorrow at 6 o’clock, then, Sir Anthony,” Boldwood said, his expression brooking no contradiction. “You know where I live, I’m sure.”

Crowley’s smile broadened.

“I sure do. I will be there.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Kicking at his horse’s sides, Boldwood prompted it forward, passing by Crowley with a nod of his head, his hand on his hat, giving him a respectful berth this time. Crowley nodded back. The reasonable panic that had hounded him before had shrunken into a tiny, trapped voice in his head screaming that he was insane and this would only end in tears, but he didn’t much care right now. He’d already stepped into it when he called out to Boldwood in the street, despite knowing that there was no chance that he was Aziraphale. He was lonely and wanted to sleep for a decade, so the universe dangling an Aziraphale lookalike in front of him would probably only end in tears, his own, most likely. But life would just keep pressing on forever and there were only so many truly exciting times in it. Maybe this was one of them. Satan knew that indulging in the comfortable domesticity of Aziraphale’s company wouldn’t happen anytime soon, if ever again. So what if he made do with gazing at someone else’s painfully similar face for a few hours? It was better than the agonizing nothing he’d been stuck with for the past fourteen years. 

His soul weighing down his body like a ten ton pendulum, Crowley trudged his way back into town. 

`````````````

Crowley did not leave town before his dinner appointment. The thought of it haunted him in an endless loop while he drank himself into a senseless stupor at the first pub he ran across during his walk. He sloshed himself so thoroughly that the barkeep cut him off, concerned that Crowley might expire in his premises. That would be a headache to clean up. Respecting his disdain of having to deal with the authorities, Crowley stumbled outside, sobered up in an alley, shuddered, then found the next pub to start the process all over again. He was kicked out at midnight. Apparently, the owner didn’t take kindly to him dancing on his tables and screaming 16th century folk tunes. Sobering up yet again, he made his way to his inn with the requisite, upright posture of a respectable person until he closed the door of his room and fell face first on his bed with a loud wail of despair. 

He should go back to London and apologize. After leaving Boldwood a note, of course. There was no need to be rude. But doing things that were good for him wasn’t Crowley’s specialty. At some point, he fell asleep.

Obnoxiously bright sunlight streamed through the window when he next opened his eyes. Squinting, he rolled away from it and curled up into a ball. Why couldn’t it be raining? That would fit his mood much better. 

He jerked up in bed, eyes wide in realization. His dinner date. Freakishly similar to Aziraphale Boldwood. What time was it? He scrambled to pull his watch out of his pocket. 5:31 stared back at him.

Shit! He only had twenty-nine minutes! It was at least a forty minute walk to Boldwood’s house. He’d never make it on foot. Ah heaven, he’d have to ride a horse. He’d have to get a horse. Would the inn lend him a horse? The heaven with it. He’d just steal one. That’s what demons did. He scrambled out of bed and toward the mirror hanging above the wash basin. Pulling it off the wall, he miracled it into the length of his body and took a good look at himself. This rumpled suit wouldn’t do. It didn’t look as luxurious as anything he’d seen Boldwood wear. Crowley didn’t go in for dressing himself in the most fashionable, expensive garments, unlike Aziraphale, who disdained wearing anything that wouldn’t look at home in a gentleman’s wardrobe. Crowley wasn’t as hoity toity as him. What business did a lowly demon like him have wearing such posh outfits? He’d tried, but it felt like a lie. Reaching above his station. Harkening back to a former life that he could never get back, so why would he remind himself of it by wrapping himself in clothes worthy of garbing the Archangels that remained in heaven? 

But Boldwood didn’t know anything about angelic hierarchy. If he saw Crowley show up in middle-class clothes to a proper dinner, he’d think he was one of the penniless gentry that made the money-having ones feel pity. He probably already thought so. The perplexed way that he’d frowned at Crowley’s suit in his shock at discovering that he was a knight said as much. Crowley would not be pitied, especially not by Boldwood. He’d never be able to live it down. Standing up to his full height, Crowley clicked his fingers. A tasteful suit wrapped itself around his body. Nothing too extravagant, but leaving no doubt that he had plentiful means to sustain himself. Wearing all black had long ago come to denote mourning, so Crowley countered this by adding even more red accents than before. Lines of red pipping adorned his coat, and a crimson and charcoal grey pattern embroidered his waistcoat in elegant curves. There was no need for a walking stick since he’d be ridding there. 

Oh, Satan. The horse. Someone downstairs better have a sodding horse. 

They did. A bay colored one, not at all de rigueur for a demon, but his aim was to please, not terrify Boldwood into submission, so the horse would have to do. 

Even if he was a cranky bugger who ignored Crowley’s commands and ran a mile in the wrong direction before Crowley strong-armed it into taking the correct route. Which it did as slowly as if it were out on an afternoon stroll, with nary a worry or urgency in sight. Grumbling curses at it, Crowley imposed his will upon it. Neighing as if it had seen a mangled corpse, the horse threw off Crowley and took off in a gallop. 

For fuck’s sake! Why couldn’t one thing go right this year? Just one?! The entire year had been a waste. So had the year before. His trip to Geneva the year before that had been fun, but there wasn’t much to talk about before that, either. Everything tasted like crap since…

Never mind that. 

Dragging himself to his feet, he took a good look around. No one. Well, here went nothing. Stretching out his wings, he flew after the horse. 

Twenty minutes later, Crowley strolled up Boldwood’s driveway, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Forget the horse. It had shrieked every time that Crowley tried to get near it. Crowley would just have to pay the innkeeper for it later. He should have known better than to try to ride here, anyway. Since he was now eighteen minutes late, he miracled every clock and watch in Boldwood’s grounds to turn back a half hour earlier, enabling Crowley to arrive with twelve minutes to spare. Sure, Boldwood and his staff would be confused and possibly fear for their sanity, but they’d brush it off as exhaustion or stress soon enough. The important thing was that Crowley would not come off as rude to someone who he should not be spending any time getting to know. 

Boldwood’s butler showed Crowley into the drawing room, where a small clock on the mantle proclaimed the time to be out of sync with the rest of England. With utmost professionalism, the butler did not allow his forehead to wrinkle as he glanced at the clock in confusion before leaving the room. Crowley preened. Perplexing people was such fun. 

He looked around the room. Pretty standard rich gentleman residence. Marble floors. Luxurious, Persian rugs. Wide bookcases filled with books that were usually for show, although Boldwood did enjoy reading, from what he’d heard. Tasteful furniture. Large windows overlooking the decorative pond and a herd of grazing sheep. Pretty standard and bucolic for a country estate. Crowley would go mad after a week of living here, but Aziraphale would love it. Not for the whole year. He’d miss the hustle and bustle of London. But he’d get a rest from the customers that he claimed to be annoyed by despite inviting them into his book collection by having a bookshop in the first place. 

The door opened behind him. He turned, breath catching in his throat for the umpteenth time upon seeing Boldwood enter. Boldwood was dressed in a suit of the richest green, which accented his hazel eyes and salt and pepper hair in a way that both distanced him from Aziraphale and intrigued Crowley. The polite smile on those familiar lips was so like Aziraphale’s yet not, but in such a subtle manner that Crowley couldn’t explain the difference. Yet he latched onto those differences all the same, clinging to them with the desperation of a sailor struggling not to capsize in a storm even as he leaned into the familiar beauty of Boldwood’s face and rich voice.

“Sir Anthony,” Boldwood said, extending his right hand to shake. “I’m glad you could make it. Not tempted to stand me up, were you?”

“Not at all,” Crowley said, matching Boldwood’s challenging smile with one of his own. “You read me too well. I’m too curious to just walk away.”

“So I see. What do you think of the grounds?”

Crowley glanced out the window. 

“Very nice,” he said. “You’ve done rather well for yourself. Good business sense is what I’ve heard.”

The right side of Boldwood’s lips curled up in amusement. 

“Yes, you do know quite a bit about me, don’t you? I do believe it is time for a little of that equal exchange we spoke of.”

“Ah, yes. That’s only fair, I suppose. First of all, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t removed my glasses. My eyes are a little oversensitive to light, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to excuse me in not taking them off.”

“Not at all. Think nothing of it. Would you care for a drink? I apologize for not offering you one before. Or would you prefer to proceed straight to dinner?”

“I’ll take the drink, please.”

Heaven, did he need it. Boldwood went to a drinking cabinet set up next to the window.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“A brandy, please.”

Simple. It got the job done without any fuss. He could take three or four right now, but it was rude to get drunk on a first visit, so he’d have to refrain until he returned to town, if any of the barkeepers would even let him in. Boldwood poured them two brandies and handed Crowley his. 

“To new acquaintances,” Crowley said, raising his glass.

With a bemused smile, Boldwood raised his own glass. They both drank. Mm, that felt good. A couple more of those and Crowley would be set for this crazy endeavor.

“Excellent stuff,” Crowley said, forcing himself not to down it all in one go.

Boldwood nodded in acknowledgment. 

“So are you originally from London, Sir Anthony?”

Not even close.

“Northumberland. I keep my estate there, but I prefer to live in London. I’m afraid that the country lifestyle is a bit too quiet for me most days.”

“It’s the opposite for me. I find London a bit, well, how should I put it?”

“Loud and stinky?”

A relieved smile popped on Boldwood’s face. Crowley’s knees weakened. So like Aziraphale’s. 

“Yes,” Boldwood said. “The constant yelling of street sellers and the noise of traffic. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand how anyone can stand it.”

Revealing that Crowley miraculously sound-proofed his house wasn’t an option.

“You get used to it,” he said, shrugging. “I do take a rest from it every so often, like now. I was on my way to Cornwall when I ran across you. Taking a tour around the island.”

“Were you meeting anyone in Cornwall?”

“No. It’s just me.”

Boldwood rubbed the side of his glass pensively before continuing.

“Not meeting your friend, then?”

A sardonic smile twisted Crowley’s lips. He downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. 

“I should have known better than to hope that you would wait to ask about him.”

A hesitant frown wrinkled Boldwood’s forehead.

“Is it a sensitive subject? I don’t wish to impose if it is.” 

“No, it’s fine. I stepped in it myself confusing you for him. No, I’m not meeting him. We actually haven’t spoken in a while. If we had, I would have known he wasn’t out here. We had a bit of a falling out. My fault. But we’ve been through rough patches before. We’ll get over it eventually.”

Boldwood looked uncertain over how to respond. One couldn’t really question too closely about what Crowley had just said without being rude. 

“Shall we go on to dinner?” Crowley said, desperate to change the subject, even if there was no avoiding it forever.

“Of course,” Boldwood said.

Finishing his drink, he put their glasses on the table to be collected later and led Crowley to the vast dining room. The requisite long table led the eye down towards large glass doors that faced more hills and sheep. It had been set in the conventional fashion. One setting each at the heads of the table. Not exactly cozy, especially when there were only two of them. Crowley had never been comfortable with this layout. When he ate with someone, he wanted to be with that person, not setting himself aloft on some social pedestal of propriety. Although, putting some distance between himself and Boldwood might tamper down his longing to examine every gesture Boldwood made and compare it with Aziraphale’s. Or it might make it worse. Bugger. 

“Would you mind if I ask for something terribly unorthodox?” Crowley said, stopping before the nearest table end, frowning at the unnecessary amount of cutlery flanking his plates.

Boldwood, who had begun moving towards the opposite end, stopped and looked between Crowley and the table setting. 

“You want less formal arrangements?” Boldwood asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble. We’re both here to get to know each other. That doesn’t work very well when we’re yards apart.”

Many gentlemen would balk at being forced to refrain from toeing the line of social niceties, but a genuine smile broadened Boldwood’s face.

“I agree,” he said. “Shall we sit facing each other at either side?”

“That will do nicely.”

Not bothering to summon a servant, Boldwood tugged Crowley’s table setting to the center-right side of the table before putting his own on the left side. They sat down. The servants appeared then to fill their glasses and their plates. Hopefully, Boldwood hadn’t gone overboard with the number of courses. Every time Crowley ate at any sort of formal dinner, he had to miracle food out of his stomach just to keep from feeling like an overstuffed pie. Aziraphale could eat on and on as if his stomach comprised half his body, but Crowley felt like a sleepy lump after eating half a plate. The first course was salad, thank hell. Lettuce and tomatoes digested quickly enough. The rest of the meal wouldn’t be as easy to manage. 

“You do a lot of traveling, then?” Boldwood asked. 

He munched on his own food with a refinement that wasn’t quite identical to Aziraphale’s style, yet was close enough to not bear looking at for long. 

“As often as I can,” Crowley said. “Mostly around Europe. I stopped in Egypt for a time. America was fun, but the voyage takes way too long.”

He skipped mentioning everywhere else he’d been since Iraq was now completely different from the last time he’d seen it. It had been covered in water, for a start.

“You’ve seen more than I have,” Boldwood said. “My travel has been restricted to France and Italy. I’ve spent most of my life here. But you probably knew that already.”

Every time that Boldwood mentioned Crowley’s digging into his past, he seemed less offended and more teasing. 

“I didn’t get an exhaustive travel log, but yes. Shall we continue evening out our knowledge of each other, then?”

“By all means. Although I don’t wish you to feel like you’re being interrogated.”

“Interrogate away. It’s only fair.”

Boldwood flashed a tight smile of acknowledgment. 

“Alright,” he said. “Is your family originally from Northumberland?”

“Yes, all the way back to the Danish invaders.”

“How did you receive your knighthood?”

“I did the queen a favor in one of her wars. I’m afraid I can’t go into more detail than that.”

Pity. It was quite the tale. He’d been sorry to have to retire it after a few decades had gone by.

“You can’t even tell me which war?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry for being so mysterious. I know it’s against the spirit of the game.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

Did Boldwood not like that characterization? He had been teasing before, but now he looked completely serious. Bless, it shouldn’t be so hard to read a face so like Aziraphale’s. 

“I’m just trying to keep things light,” Crowley said, putting down his fork. “We started out on the wrong foot, but I got the impression that we were past that. Was I wrong?”

Why was Boldwood taking so long to reply? That was the look that Aziraphale got on his face whenever Crowley coaxed him towards a moral quandary between heavenly and hellish purposes. 

“No,” Boldwood said at last. “You’re not wrong. But I confess that I’m still at a loss as to what it is that you want from me.”

“Just dinner,” Crowley said, raising his right hand to indicate the dining room. “And companionship, I suppose. We’re both curious about the other. We established that already.”

“Yes, but I’m curious about you because you’re curious about me. All that you’ve told me about that is that I look a lot like an old friend of yours whom you haven’t spoken to in a long time. This is the beginning of an answer, but not a full one. It isn’t uncommon for unrelated persons to resemble each other. Yet you sought to learn everything you could about me. I would be very grateful if you would illuminate me as to why that is.”

Crowley sat very still, wracking his brain for an answer other than the truth, any answer, but nothing came to him. 

“I was just curious,” he said. “That’s all. I can’t help myself when I don’t know something.”

The intense scrutiny of Boldwood’s gaze grew more uncomfortable by the second. He wasn’t about to ask _that_ , was he? It was unthinkable in polite society, much less a formal setting such as this, with servants within earshot. But he was thinking it, wasn’t he? Satan bless it all. Were humans in this part of the world ever going to stop being hung up on these asinine fabrications about who should love whom? And they had the gall to blame demons for their own stupid beliefs and prejudices. 

Just when Crowley was on the verge of imposing his will on Boldwood to force him to change the subject, Boldwood lowered his gaze with an embarrassed air. 

“Will you tell me a bit more about your friend?” Boldwood asked, his tone subdued and apologetic.

Crowley was too annoyed to be properly relieved, but at least Boldwood wasn’t a judgmental wanker. He’d sound hostile if he were, kick Crowley out at the worst. Asking about Aziraphale might be a ploy for Crowley to give himself away, but at least Boldwood sounded awkward about it. Crowley had really stepped in it. Boldwood would have to be the most incurious person in the world not to want to know more. If Crowley denied his request, the questions would continue to swell in Boldwood’s mind. Every bit of information would probably make his curiosity worse, not assuage it, but Crowley would never have been able to get away with not revealing anything. He knew that when he’d accepted Boldwood’s invitation. Aziraphale was the crux of the matter, whether Crowley said his name or not. 

Why was he even bothering to debate anything in his head? The person sitting across from him might not be Aziraphale, but he bore the same face, the same quietly pleading expression, begging to be indulged in his enquiry. When had Crowley ever been able to deny anything to that face?

“His name is Aziraphale,” Crowley said. 

````````````

Crowley carried on for far longer than he’d meant to. He stuck to the last “official” history that he knew Aziraphale used when humans asked for personal details. Born in Norfolk from a gentle family, no siblings, deceased parents, had learned all he knew from private tutors, Oxford, and touring the continent on and off for the past fifty years. He made his money from the railroad, but his real passion was books, which he sold at the bookshop he had inherited from his uncle. Why his uncle and not his father? It gave the story more character. Aziraphale was always one for embellishment. But Crowley was too worked up for that, so he stuck to a simple story to explain how they met. Fellow university students. No Eden. No heavenly war. No working for opposite sides. The closest he could get to that was claiming that their families hated each other, but he couldn’t fabricate something as grandiose as a proper feud without sounding like he’d taken his story from Romeo and Juliet, and he was being too blessedly obvious already. He carried on about Aziraphale’s razor-sharp intelligence for much too long. And had it really been necessary to complain about what an awful magician he was with such fondness? Crowley should have stuck to the basic trivia and been done with it. Why hadn’t he?

Oh, right. That face. 

“You really do look too much like him,” Crowley said, drinking his second glass of wine. “It’s unbelievable. You sound like him, too. Only you’re more serious. And Aziraphale is blond.”

“Blond?” Boldwood’s brows rose in surprise. “I can’t imagine myself as a blond. Pale blond or darker blond?”

“Pale. Very pale. No beard, either. He grew one once, but he didn’t like it. Said he didn’t look right.”

“Well, no offense to your friend, but I would argue the opposite. Although.” Boldwood touched the end of his beard. “Perhaps if I had blonde hair I would think differently.”

“He did look a bit like an ice cream cone,” Crowley admitted, half hiding behind his wineglass. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Boldwood smiled. 

“I won’t, if I ever have the honor of meeting him.”

There was a thought. 

Nope. Not a good thought. 

“Best not,” Crowley said. “That would mess with my mind too much.”

Aziraphale would grow obsessed with Boldwood, too. He’d probably move out here for a time to observe and befriend him, only much more politely than Crowley had done. Not that this would be terrible, but two Aziraphales was too much to handle. 

“I believe it would disturb me, too,” Boldwood said. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to look upon my own face on someone else.” Boldwood’s eyes filled with curious wonder. “Have you ever come across someone who resembles you so keenly?”

Crowley thought back. There had been a couple, one in ancient Gaul and the other in the fifteenth century, neither of them exact, but close enough for him to do a double take.

“Once at a dinner in York,” he said. “A rich merchant looked enough like me that people were confusing us all night even though his hair was brown and his nose was bigger. But we didn’t look as much alike as you and Aziraphale do, so it wasn’t exactly the experience that you’re describing. But I can get an idea.”

“I suppose that there are only so many variations on a human face. It’s inevitable that some will closely resemble each other without being related.”

Except that one of these faces wasn’t human at all, and coincidences weren’t as common as humans thought. Yet Crowley couldn’t think of a reason for God to fuck with him by going through all the trouble of making sure that the right genes aligned throughout the generations for someone who looked and sounded so much like Aziraphale to cross his path. Besides, God didn’t care about him. He had only been one in ten million angels who had rebelled, and not even one of the high ranking ones. It wasn’t like he and God had ever been on speaking terms. All that bother just to mess with him? It didn’t make sense. 

So… coincidence, then? It looked like it. 

“I suppose,” Crowley said in response to Boldwood’s comment. “Happy chance that I came across you, huh?”

Crowley did not quaff his wine. He sipped it, like a proper, not at all freaked out gentleman, his smile showing nothing but amusement. No desperation at all. 

Great, now Boldwood was scrutinizing him again with that serious expression that could mean anything, for it was a tad out of sync with Aziraphale’s pensive expression, just off enough for Crowley to not have a clue about what was going on in that mind of his. Boldwood’s smile, glad though it looked, took just long enough to appear for Crowley to not trust it. Boldwood had been nice enough to not be a bigot earlier, but it could have simply been to get more information out of him and not cause a scene. Servants talked, even when they shouldn’t. 

“Happy indeed,” Boldwood said, raising his glass.

Crowley raised his in turn. Fuck it. He could impose his will on Boldwood later if he made any trouble. Though it would be disappointing. Not that he had gotten his hopes up about anything. There was nothing he should want from Boldwood other than whatever this dinner was. Enjoyment was only the right word for what he felt right now if the definition had been expanded to include existential despair. Self-harm is what it was. 

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to call the evening short. Not as they moved on to less personal subjects, both needing a reprieve from the emotional charge in the room. The weather and crop rotations had never been more fascinating, although Boldwood grew wise to Crowley’s disinterest in agriculture soon enough and switched to art. Now there was a subject that Crowley could go on for days about. With the usual omissions, of course. It was his ancestor who struck up a friendship with Leonardo DaVinci, not him. And he absolutely did not spend a month with Homer while he composed his Odyssey. Like always, Crowley had to edit out or refashion all the most fascinating stories, but Boldwood was no less impressed by hearing him relate how the sketch of La Gioconda that hung in his sitting room had come to be there. 

His look of awe was as enjoyable as it was painful. Every single gesture and expression he made was Aziraphale’s mirror yet not, close enough to be captivating and infuriating at once. It made Crowley yearn to lean nearer but also run away and never see him again. Yet the longer he spent sitting in that chair in this pristine dining room that Aziraphale would never be able to keep clean, the more those differences began to add up, and the less shrill the dissonance became. For Boldwood’s personality was too blunt of a contrast to ignore. No silly flourishes. No gazing off into space while distracted by the mention of a favorite food. Boldwood’s seriousness and easy smiles were similar, but they didn’t have the same fervor. No, that wasn’t right. He was passionate, but he reigned it in, subsumed it beneath a veneer of upper-class refinement and propriety, only allowing it to peek through at appropriate moments, like when he’d confronted Crowley at the walking path, his being brimming with offence. It wasn’t the same sort as Aziraphale’s at all. Even if Boldwood dyed his hair blonde and shaved his beard, Crowley would be able to tell them apart as soon as they opened their mouths. And yet… Angels didn’t have siblings in the way that humans did, but if Aziraphale were to have one, they might be much like Boldwood. 

“You appear frustrated by something,” Boldwood said after they had moved back to the sitting room for an after-dinner drink.

“It’s nothing,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his drink. “It just takes a little getting used to. I know every expression on Aziraphale’s face. Yours are alike, yet not. It’s odd.”

“I suppose it must be.” 

Boldwood frowned. Crowley snorted.

“Now that one was identical,” he said.

Boldwood’s eyes widened in wonder.

“Was it?”

Christ, that was worse. 

“I must insist that you stop that. It’s too weird.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s my face.”

Boldwood looked amused and apologetic, yet he also seemed proud of his teasing visage. A groan strangled in Crowley’s throat before he could give it voice. This night was going to be the death of him. 

“I think I would like to take the air,” Crowley said. “I like to see the stars. It’s not so easy to do so in London these days.”

“That’s alright with me.”

Boldwood led him back to the dining hall and through the doors that led to the lawn facing the pond. There were no sheep in sight now. The crickets had taken over their spots in the grass, singing their whistling sound to the cloudy sky overhead. Crowley grimaced. Only a few stars peeked through gaps here and there.

“Not much luck with the stars, I’m afraid,” Boldwood said, apologetic, as if he were responsible for the weather. 

A cool wind blew a strand of Crowley’s hair loose from his pomade and onto his forehead. He stopped himself short of miracling it back in its place. Let it sway. 

“It will do,” he said. 

The stars had only been an excuse to get them outside, even if he had been looking forward to them cheering him up. He made sure that the doors were shut behind them, as well as the windows above. No one was nearby to overhear them. Crowley didn’t care about that, but Boldwood would feel prohibited from speaking freely if they didn’t have complete privacy. 

“I think the exchange of personal information is now in your favor,” Crowley said.

Taking a step forward, he turned to face Boldwood. Enough light illuminated them through the glass doors for Boldwood to see him properly, if a bit dimly. Boldwood frowned, caution entering his eyes, his thumb rubbing along his glass in uncertainty. He probably thought that Crowley was going to ask about Mrs. Troy, the latest woman to jilt him. He’d considered it, but it felt a bit mean.

“Is it?” Boldwood asked, not bothering to try for nonchalance.

Crowley kept his eyes firmly on him, taking advantage of his sunglasses’ tendency to unnerve people. 

“You have guessed at the nature of my affection for my friend, haven’t you?” 

Boldwood’s eyes widened in shock. He looked over his shoulder, apprehension in his eyes as he searched for prying ears.

“No one is around to hear us,” Crowley said in a tone that more than informed.

Boldwood’s lips tightened.

“I would have thought that you’d prefer not to discuss it,” he said, befuddled.

“Far from it. I don’t like sidestepping the issue. Especially not when you don’t seem hostile about it. I wasn’t sure at first if you were just being polite, pretending that I didn’t say anything or if there’s something else to it. Which is it?”

Boldwood took far more than a sip from his glass. He shifted on his feet, looking out at the dark and the Milky Way above, discomfort growing on his face.

“It’s really none of my business who you… you know.”

“It’s nobody’s business, yet people do insist on sticking their noses in it. Why aren’t you?”

“You are my guest.”

“Easy enough for you to chuck me out. But you’re not uncomfortable with it. I’d be able to tell.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

Boldwood’s voice grew in intensity even as he lowered it to a whisper. His eyes shone, a fire dying as swiftly as it had arisen as his shoulders sagged with a weary sigh.

“I’m a Church going man,” he said, subdued. “And not only out of obligation. I believe in God. I’ve read the Bible, not just perused it. So I know how much of it society keeps to and how much it ignores. The section that prohibits such actions arose in a time nothing like ours and includes many outdated rules, like not eating shellfish. We’re both damned then, for we consumed some tonight.”

Crowley raised a brow, impressed. Well, looky here.

“That’s rather enlightened,” he said. “Not many would agree with you, even if you are right.”

“I’m not so concerned with people agreeing with me.” Boldwood grimaced. “I’m not any sort of firebrand. I am traditional in most respects, as you know, but my principles don’t always align with the majority.”

“Mrs. Troy isn’t very traditional.”

A fond smile burst on Boldwood’s face. 

“No, she’s not. Look, what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have anything to worry about from me. I’m not offended or angered by your nature. It doesn’t make much sense to me to condemn someone for feeling love. Or passion. No matter the sexes of the people involved.”

Boldwood didn’t look at Crowley once as he spoke. He clutched his glass too tightly, his brows scrunching with discomfort. 

Hang on. There was more in Boldwood’s romantic past than the women who had rejected him, wasn’t there? 

“Is there more to this than you’re telling me?” Crowley, taking a step forward.

Fearful eyes met his. Boldwood gaped at him like a squirrel that had just spotted a fox, before all the air drained out of him in a long sigh. He rushed forward to put his drink on the stone handrail encircling the porch, his limbs trembling, and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at the flagstones, face tight with an internal struggle. Crowley took some cautious steps toward him, making sure to remain in profile towards the doors and the illumination within. It wouldn’t be right if Boldwood couldn’t see his face while Crowley could see his, not at this moment. 

“There’s no sense in not telling me, you know,” Crowley said. “Not with what you know about me.”

A desperate laugh huffed out of Boldwood’s mouth.

“No, there isn’t.” 

Boldwood peeked at the windows of the house.

“No one can hear us,” Crowley said. 

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know they can’t.”

Boldwood’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Crowley should have done a better job of convincing him earlier. Usually, he didn’t have a problem imposing his will upon people, especially for something as trivial as redirecting their attention, but it felt a bit shady with Boldwood. Christ, he was getting attached, wasn’t he? All that Boldwood had to do was flash him that beguiling pair of hazel eyes and an Aziraphale caliber warm smile and Crowley was putty in his hands. His eyes weren’t even the same color! 

Growling at himself, Crowley slithered into Boldwood’s mind and insisted that no one was listening. Boldwood leaned back, blinking in confusion as he looked down at the floor.

“Right,” he said, forgetting his train of thought. “What was I saying?”

Oh, crap. Crowley had gone in too deep. 

“I was saying that there’s no sense in you hiding anything from me considering what you know about me. I can hardly judge you, can I?”

Boldwood considered this, trying to remember, then his eyes widened as the conversation returned to him. He glanced at Crowley nervously and folded his hands behind his back, tucking their trembling out of sight. 

“I never did anything,” he said, turning his back to the house and his eyes toward the darkness of the night. 

“That’s not all there is to it.”

Boldwood’s hands twitched at his back. 

“I’m not trying to bury anything by trying to marry.” He turned a sharp eye toward Crowley. “I haven’t even tried that for years. After Miss D—Mrs. Turner refused me, I had to taste for it. I never seek anything that I’m not truly passionate about. Or anyone.”

“I didn’t imply otherwise. It’s obvious how much you love the former Miss Everdeen.”

A painful sigh escaped Boldwood’s lips.

“Yes. A misjudgment on my part. I should have continued ignoring her presence in town, but I found myself unable to. I temper my desires. Try to live up to the image of the respectable gentleman the community knows me to be. But when a desire gets away from me, well…” A half-grimace, half-smile crossed Boldwood’s face. “It overtakes me. I cannot restrain myself any longer. I insisted on pursuing my suit with Miss Everdeen even though I knew my chances were small. I should have contained myself, I know that. I only thought her interested in me because she sent me a Valentine as a joke. I knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t accept, although I hoped, fool that I was. I didn’t press her on it, but I did remind her on occasion. I shouldn’t have. It only annoyed her. And now she’s married to someone else. Someone completely unsuitable, in my opinion, but it’s not for me to say. My point is, I cannot afford to allow certain passions to fly. It’s not safe.”

“It bloody well should be,” Crowley muttered darkly, rage rising inside him.

“Yes, but that’s not the world we live in, unfortunately. So there’s not much sense dwelling on it. In any case, I haven’t been interested in any man in that fashion in years. I couldn’t marry them, in any case, so it’s just as well.”

So Boldwood wasn’t attracted to Crowley? He could be lying about it. Crowley had detected a whiff of interest in that direction. 

“No point discussing it further, then.”

“No, there isn’t. Although I do hope that you’re reconciled with your friend.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to gaze off into the dark. But it held no mystery for his demonic eyes, which beheld all the miseries and haunts that not even the deepest night could hide. 

“We’ve had our spats before,” he said, cringing internally as Aziraphale’s furious gaze flashed in his memory. 

“Does that mean that there is hope?”

Crowley squeezed his lips, shame burning in his chest.

“Perhaps.”

He turned away from the night and back to the house, to the brightness of candlelight. No gas lighting yet for Boldwood out here in the countryside. He could afford it. Perhaps he didn’t like it. Candles suited Crowley better. It was easier to hide when the view was too dim for others to see you properly, not even angels. Aziraphale was the only being that Crowley dared show himself to without almost any inhibitions, yet Aziraphale still insisted on only seeing the demon and not the being underneath, like a superstitious fool who saw a mermaid instead of a manatee because they seemed to have the same shape. No matter how many millennia they’d spent together, how many meals they shared, how many autographed first editions Crowley gifted him, how excited Aziraphale was to see him, it was never enough. Not even the brightness of the most brilliant sun could erase the blotted spots from Crowley’s soul, or the eyes of the most understanding and generous angel in the universe. It would all end in tears, most likely Crowley’s.

“Maybe it’s better that we don’t reconcile,” Crowley said, grabbing his glass and miracling brandy into it as he drank. The heaven with Boldwood noticing.

“Better?” Boldwood asked, frowning. “Why?”

Crowley lowered his glass with a sneer.

“Because it just is. He always kept himself at a distance, anyway. That’s never going to change. His family always comes first, no matter what. It was only a matter of time before he pushed me away.”

“Is that what happened?”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, discomfort twitching under his skin.

“I’d rather not get into specifics.”

Boldwood’s scrutiny bore into Crowley before Boldwood looked away, his right hand flexing at his side before he tucked them both into his trouser pockets. 

“So what was your plan with me, then?” he asked, the guardedness that had ebbed away returning with a vengeance. 

Crowley frowned at him. 

“Plan? I didn’t have any plan. I was just curious. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“You were just curious about a man who greatly resembles the dear friend who you aren’t sure you’ll speak to again. And whom you insisted on discussing this specific subject with, which most people would leave alone.”

“Most people would have changed the subject as soon as it came up or chucked me out of the house. You didn’t and you expected me to ignore that? And what are you implying? That I want to use you as a replacement for him? Get over yourself. You don’t even stand the same way he does.”

“Then why were you so curious? And why be so overt with your questioning as to make it impossible for me to not seek you out?”

“I was sloppy. It wasn’t some sort of strategy. Sure, fine, the resemblance threw me off. I wasn’t thinking straight. But never in a million years would you be a replacement for him. You’d be so lucky.”

Boldwood’s face hardened. 

“You think so highly of yourself, do you, Sir Anthony?”

The title was a cold jibe in Boldwood’s mouth. Crowley rounded on him, looming over him, getting in close in his face.

“Why did you invite me here, huh?” he asked. “If I offended you so much with my questions, you could have fought me. Let me go on my way. Not have to burden yourself with my presence ever again. A cordial dinner sends a bit of a mixed signal if you’re displeased with someone. You were practically flirting with me back at that path. There’s no use denying that.”

“I do deny it.”

Boldwood stood his ground, his voice as firm as stone, but he wavered at the last second, stumbling over the last syllable. Crowley grinned mockingly.

“You’re lying,” he sneered.

Boldwood bristled, eyes narrowing in anger. 

“I will not be accused of being a liar in my own home,” he said. “I must ask you to leave.”

Crowley scoffed. Typical. Steer them too close to the truth and they run, tails between their legs, clinging to their stubborn pride while blaming you for their own fabricated weaknesses.

“Fine,” Crowley said, stepping back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Avoid the truth dangling in front of your eyes. I don’t care.”

Turning his back, he started walking away.

“Aren’t you going to take your coat?” Boldwood asked.

Crowley didn’t stop or even look at him.

“Keep it. Burn it. I don’t care.”

Boldwood followed him. Gritting his teeth, Crowley quickened his pace, circling around the house to find the road.

“What about light?” Boldwood asked. “You can’t just walk off into the dark. I can lend you a lamp and a horse.”

“And be beholden to you? No thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk all the way to town without being able to see what’s in front of you.”

“I can see fine.”

“With those glasses on? I doubt that very much.”

Crowley turned around.

“Oh, you want to see what’s beneath my glasses, do you? I knew they bothered you.”

Boldwood stopped a few paces before him, looking just as put out as before.

“They don’t bother me,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. I can barely see anything in this gloom. How could you possibly do so with them on?”

Crowley wiped his glasses off. If Boldwood couldn’t see his eyes, what did it matter?

“There you go,” he said. “Happy? Am I allowed to take my leave now, Mr. Boldwood?”

Crowley bowed down, arms wide, in a grievous breach of protocol that shocked Boldwood.

“Stop that, Sir Anthony, I beg you,” he hissed, eyes wide with uncertainty. 

Crowley stood up straight. 

“Fine. If that’s all, I’ll go now.”

“With no lamp?”

“No lamp.”

Crowley walked away.

“Sir Anthony, please!”

Crowley raised his hand in a sarcastic wave. 

“Good evening, Mr. Boldwood. See you never.”

Boldwood didn’t try to stop him this time. Just as well. Crowley had tired of their argument as soon as it had begun, even if he had started it. Always his fault, wasn’t it? Everything that had ever gone wrong was his fault. Blame the demon. Heaven couldn’t possibly have blood on its hands, not even after drowning an entire region. Oh, no. Everything was Hell’s fault, Crowley’s fault, just because he had asked a few, perfectly justified questions about how fucked up God’s system for running the universe was.

“Stop!”

Crowley halted in his tracks. Boldwood was still following him around? They were too far away from the house for Boldwood to see anything at all. 

“What is it now?” Crowley asked, turning around. 

He sounded like a whiny toddler. Christ. Boldwood squinted in the dark in Crowley’s direction, unable to visualize him well enough to meet his eyes. 

“I cannot allow you to leave like this,” Boldwood said, mustering his dignity despite it all. “I insist that you borrow a lamp and a horse. I will not have a guest of mine risk hurting himself by going off in the middle of the night with nothing to light his way. Especially not when our altercation was my fault.”

Crowley's mouth fell open. He played the words back in his head.

“Your fault?” 

His voice was weak in shock. 

“Entirely mine,” Boldwood continued, contrite. “I apologize. I was lying earlier. But it’s not… This isn’t a subject that I can take lightly.”

“I never took it lightly. Not at all.”

“That I can be open about, then. Not so easily. I don’t know you beyond these last couple of hours. I am not clear about your motivations for seeking me out, and your uncertainty about it doesn’t help matters. I know not what to think of you or this situation.”

Fear leaked into Boldwood’s voice, as well as his hands, which had begun to tremble with agitation that he didn’t bother to control, thinking himself safe in the dark. But Crowley could see every inch of him with perfect clarity. The shifting of his feet on the grass. The apprehensive frown wrinkling his brow. How Boldwood peered at the bushes beside them as if hoping that they might provide answers. Crowley took a step forward. Boldwood stiffened like a deer becoming aware of a predator lurking in the grass, but he didn’t retreat. 

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, gentle, comforting. His anger had cooled away.

Boldwood huffed a laugh. 

“It would destroy my reputation, if not my life. I have plenty to be scared of. Not that I’m assuming that you’d be interested. Nor am I saying that I am. My feelings for Miss E—” His eyes scrunched shut in pain. “Mrs. Troy are still very keen and painful.”

“I understand. I wasn’t lying when I said earlier that I’m not looking to use you as a replacement for Aziraphale. I really haven’t given that any thought.”

“Oh,”

Boldwood’s voice denoted relief but his expression dropped with disappointment. It looked like Crowley wasn’t the only one whose feelings were hopelessly confused. Guilt gnawed inside Crowley. Boldwood really had thought that Crowley was leading him on, hadn’t he? It was an easy mistake to make. The obvious one, really. What other conclusion could he draw from Crowley’s interest in him? 

“I miss his face,” Crowley said. “And his voice. I suppose I have been using your company, in a way.”

Boldwood shook his head, but the gesture didn’t seem aimed at Crowley. 

“Nothing I didn’t already guess,” Boldwood said with a somber expression. “We have both erred tonight. Let’s just call it even and say no more about it.”

“Alright.”

A silence of singing crickets descended between them. Crowley’s speech had run dry, even as his mind teemed with a whirlwind of questions and emotions and the certainty that he needed to get back to London and apologize to Aziraphale. 

“I’ll take that horse,” Crowley said.

Relief shone on Boldwood’s face far more intensely than it would have been proper to show if he knew that Crowley could see every detail of his face. 

“I’m very glad to hear that,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Boldwood’s horse was much more amenable than the inn’s was. It calmly followed directions and didn’t try to throw Crowley off once. Maybe it sensed his perturbation and took pity on him. Crowley would take the pity. He’d take anything that made this night even just a tiny bit easier. He wouldn’t be seeing Boldwood again. While he couldn’t call dinner a complete disaster, it was extremely clear that staying in town after he had first seen Boldwood had been a mistake. Boldwood had been very, well, not happy, but not confused before Crowley came along being nostalgic about a person sharing his face, seeding grievous misunderstandings in his head. Mrs. Gray had rejected him. Mrs. Troy had also rejected him. Any amount of people could have rejected him in the interim on top of that. Now Crowley had done the same thing. If Boldwood found himself sinking into a deep void of despair at being so unlovable, Crowley wouldn’t be surprised. He hadn’t meant for Boldwood to be interested in him in that way. But he hadn’t backed away when he’d caught whiff of Boldwood’s attraction, either, had he? 

Sighing, Crowley sank atop the horse like a soggy blanket. The horse whinnied, almost like a question.

“Why am I like this?” Crowley replied in despair, clinging to the horse’s sleek fur. “Why can’t I do anything right? Sure, making humans miserable is my job, and it’s fun most of the time, but not when it’s one I like. He was nice. He is nice, isn’t he, your master? You seem to like him, so he must be nice.”

Instead of letting a servant handle everything to do with the horse, Boldwood had gone into the stable himself and rubbed the horse’s neck while a stable hand saddled him. The horse had whinnied happily, licking a sugar cube in Boldwood’s hand. Boldwood had smiled in merriment, the affection melting away the anxiety that Crowley had given him. Crowley’s breath had stopped completely and he’d had to look away else he betray himself, for in that moment there was no difference between Boldwood and Aziraphale. It was the same smile, the same joy, bright and effervescent, that brought such peace to Crowley’s soul, even if only for a moment. While regarding him, Boldwood’s beard seemed to vanish and his hair turn blonde, and Crowley thought himself gazing at Aziraphale himself dotting on a cute animal. They all flocked to him, even horses despite his dislike of riding them. Animals didn’t flock to Gabriel or Michael. Aziraphale was that kind of angel. Pure and loving, yet with a bit of a bastard streak that opportunistic animals could get behind. Boldwood having the same gift with horses made confused warmth and shame burn in Crowley’s chest.

He should have stayed in London, should have begged Aziraphale for forgiveness years ago, on his knees if he had to. Aziraphale had done nothing wrong. Of course he thought that Crowley wanted the holy water to kill himself. Why should he think any differently with Crowley being such a morose, pitiful waste? At dawn, he would take the first train back to London, knock on Aziraphale’s door, and apologize. Yes, that’s exactly what he was going to do. 

`````````````````````

The next morning, Crowley left the horse in the inn’s care with instructions to return it to Boldwood, along with a pile of bills large enough to cover the lost horse, his room, and a bill for damages one of the pubs he had patronized delivered to him. An hour before the train even showed up at the station, Crowley was already on the platform, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the pre-dawn gloom. He bounced even more in the first-class carriage he miracled a reservation to, unable to sit still for the next two hours. He pressed his face to the glass window when they entered London, hungrily counting the streets until they arrived at Waterloo and he could finally jump out and run for the nearest taxi.

It dropped him off outside Aziraphale’s door. Crowley tossed a wad of bills at the driver while telling him to keep the change and jumped out, landing in a puddle, but the notice on the shop door kept him from caring about getting wet.

_Closed for the season_

Closed? The shop was closed? For a whole season? For a day or a week, sure. Aziraphale kept odd hours and he traveled sometimes, but a whole season? What did that mean? It was May now. Did he mean spring, so he’d come back soon, or did he mean summer? In which case, he’d be gone for ages. And where the heaven had he gone? When was he coming back? 

“Bless it, angel,” Crowley muttered, touching the paper sign. “I need you.”

Aziraphale didn’t return for the rest of the month, so “season” did not refer to spring. He didn’t return in June, either. Or July, August, or September. October was clearly a different season entirely, yet Aziraphale had yet to pop his head around the shop, unless he did so when Crowley wasn’t looking. 

Until one day, Crowley passed by the shop on his daily visit and the sign was gone, having been replaced by another.

_Still Closed. So sorry. I will see you all in the new year._

The new year?! Crowley had to wait a whole year to see him?! 

Fuck! 

He paced around the sidewalk, slamming into people, snarling at anyone who complained. 

Two and a half months until next year. It wasn’t that long, really, not even by tiny human standards. He could wait. And Aziraphale would be much more amenable right after the Christmas season. It was his favorite. Apologizing then would be much better than doing so now, wouldn’t it? Yes, this was fine. Nail-biting annoying, but fine. Fine, fine, fine. 

`````````````````

It was not fine. On Boxing Day, Crowley came across a headline in The Times that made him choke on his tea so badly that the man in the table next to him at the café asked him if he was alright. Nodding with a grimacing smile, Crowley ordered his aching throat to control itself and frowned at the newspaper through bleary eyes.

_Wessex Gentleman Imprisoned for Murder_

_Mr. William Boldwood, of Weatherbury, killed Sergeant Frank Troy, husband of local landowner Mrs. Bathsheba Troy._

He what?! Crowley thought that Boldwood was leaving it alone, letting her carry on with her life.

_Sergeant Troy was presumed dead after his army uniform was found abandoned at the beach, but he resurfaced at Mr. Boldwood’s estate during the latter’s Christmas party. An altercation ensued between the couple, during which Mr. Boldwood shot Sergeant Troy dead. Mr. Boldwood handed himself into the authorities soon after. He had previously proposed marriage to Mrs. Troy, but she rejected his suit._

“Boldwood, what did you do?” Crowley moaned under his breath.

There had to be an explanation. Boldwood wouldn’t just kill Mrs. Troy’s resurrected husband in a jealous rage. The altercation had to be the cause. Perhaps Mrs. Troy’s husband had been yelling at her or hitting her. Seeing her so abused, Boldwood’s impulsive, protective instincts must have kicked him, driving him to protect her. Perhaps it had been a loveless marriage and she had been glad to be rid of him. If Boldwood had been the type to make the person he loved miserable just so he could have her, Crowley would have been able to sense it like a sour taste on his tongue. Which meant that Boldwood was probably about to be hanged for doing a good deed. 

Cursing a long tirade in his head, Crowley placed a couple of coins beside his tea cup and grabbed his hat and coat, heading for Waterloo Station. 

``````````````

On the ride into Wessex, Crowley scoured every newspaper he came across for more information, but there was nothing other than that Boldwood’s trial was due to begin in two weeks and that plenty of people had witnessed the murder, so there was no chance of him being exonerated. It didn’t seem likely that he even wanted to be, since he had waltzed to the local prison and turned himself in. If Crowley left him in that prison, Boldwood would die. Or get life imprisonment, which was a miserable existence. Crowley twitched in his seat, willing the train to go faster. He didn’t get a chance to check Aziraphale’s bookshop, but it didn’t matter. If Aziraphale said that he wouldn’t be back until the new year, then that was that. There were still six days left, plenty of time to sort out this Boldwood situation. 

Upon arriving at the prison (a stinky, deplorable excuse for a building), Crowley persuaded the guards to grant him a private visitation. A guard led him to a small room with a tiny grate on the door. Inside, Boldwood sat at the opposite end of a worn table, his hands and feet manacled, wearing a wretched, dull grey prison uniform with a number stamped on his left breast. He had combed his hair as well as he could muster, but it was oily and in need of a proper wash, and he looked pale and tired. Crowley’s heart leapt in his throat, remembering Aziraphale trapped in Revolutionary France awaiting the slash of the guillotine. But he would only have been discorporated. What awaited Boldwood was far worse. Boldwood’s hollow expression brightened in surprise when he saw Crowley, gaping soundlessly for a moment.

“Sir Anthony,” he said, breathless. “I apologize for not standing. As you can see,” he raised his shackled hands to the table, “I’m prevented from doing so.”

“Why?” Crowley asked as the guard shut the door behind him, leaving the two alone. “Why did you do it?”

He sat on the chair across the table, leaning forward. Boldwood lowered his eyes, looking lost for a moment before he straightened his back and gazed steadily at Crowley.

“The circumstances demanded it,” he said with a trace of remorse.

Crowley raised a brow.

“Circumstances demanded that you kill Mrs. Troy’s husband at your Christmas party?”

“Yes. He had disappeared, letting everyone believe that he was dead. He was cruel to her, disdainful, refused to be any sort of proper husband for her. He left her with debts so grievous that she was in danger of losing her farm, which she loves so much. Then he had the audacity to return out of the blue and demand that she go with him. He was rough with her. I saw it. She didn’t want to go with him. If no one stopped him, he might have done worse and made the rest of her life miserable. I couldn’t allow that.”

As he spoke, Boldwood’s face grew animated, furious, firm in his conviction that he had done the only thing he could.

“She is now free,” he continued. “She can marry whoever she wants, who will obviously not be me.” Boldwood’s voice faltered in a mirthless laugh as he gazed desperately to the side at an image of his own imaginings. “I know who, actually. I should never have sought to step between the two of them.” Boldwood’s face scrunched with pain. “I will leave her more than enough money to pay off her debts when I…” The words withered in his throat, fear blanching his face for a wrenching moment that made Crowley’s throat clench. “I hope that makes up for my presumptuous mistakes.”

“So you’re willing to let yourself die to protect her?” Crowley asked. 

“I have no choice. All my guests saw me shoot him. I have no defense in a court of law.”

“You could have run.”

“Why? I wouldn’t have gotten far. And I will not live my life as a fugitive, constantly looking over my shoulder. What kind of life would that be?”

Crowley leaned forward, hissing furiously.

“You won’t have a life at all if you stay here.”

Boldwood sucked in a steadying breath that didn’t do anything of the sort. 

“I appreciate your concern,” he said, “truly, but there’s nothing to be done.”

“There’s plenty I could do.”

Boldwood frowned.

“Like what? Plead with powerful friends for my upcoming death sentence to be commuted to life imprisonment? I don’t want that.”

“No, not that. I can get you out of here while making the authorities believe that you died in prison, so they’ll never look for you.”

Boldwood’s frown deepened as he stared at Crowley as if he were being ludicrous.

“With all due respect, Sir Anthony,” Boldwood said, policing his tone to not cause offense, “that is impossible.”

Crowley dug in his pocket for his watch. There was no telling how Boldwood would react, but he had no choice.

“I need you to prepare yourself for a bit of a shock,” Crowley said.

Boldwood’s eyes narrowed.

“A shock? What do you mean?”

He glanced at Crowley’s watch, which Crowley held up in his hand. 

“Ready?” Crowley asked. “Although, you can’t really be ready for this.”

He tossed the watch in the air. Before gravity could pull it down, Crowley clicked his fingers, freezing time. The watch halted in mid-air. Boldwood jumped back, his shackles clanking as he tried to rise from his chair, gaping at the watch, mouth wide. His lips worked silently, struggling to speak.

“It’s alright,” Crowley said gently. “I have it under control. I froze time.”

“How?” he asked, after he regained the power of speech, staring between the watch and Crowley. “That’s not… It’s not… possible. It must be some sort of trick.”

“It’s not.”

Standing up, Crowley clicked his fingers again, releasing Boldwood from his manacles. Jerking, Boldwood shoved his chair back with a sharp screech and frowned at the manacles piled on the floor, turning his hands over to examine them. The abrasions that had cruelly cut into his skin had healed.

“How are you able to do this?” 

Boldwood’s voice was tighter than when he’d confronted Crowley at the path, shaking with trepidation. Crowley sucked in a deep breath. Here went nothing. Squaring his shoulders, he removed his glasses and extended his wings. Boldwood cried out, a loud gasp of shock that would have alerted the guards if they weren’t frozen. 

“I feel like I should say ‘Be not afraid’ or something like that,” Crowley said sheepishly. “I mean, you shouldn’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You…” Boldwood gasped, staring at Crowley’s wings. “You’re an angel?”

Crowley winced. It would be so much easier for Boldwood to believe that, but it wouldn’t do any good in the end. Crowley couldn’t play an angelic role these days except for the occasional blessing. 

“I’m afraid not,” Crowley said. 

Boldwood met his eyes, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“What are you, then? Another form of divine being?”

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets, desperately stopping himself from swinging from side to side in discomfort. How likely was it that a religious man would flee the aid of a self-proclaimed demon? Pretty high. Crowley should have just pretended to be an angel.

“Divine isn’t really the right word,” he said. “I’m a demon. That’s why my eyes look like this and I smell of smoke.”

Boldwood’s narrowed eyes widened again. He tilted his head to the side, as if uncomprehending, slowly processing this high uncomfortable revelation.

“I don’t mean you any harm.” Crowley said quickly, desperately. “I’m here to help you. I’m not one of those demons who delights in death and destruction. I mostly annoy people and do other things. Well, deaths might result from those things, but I don’t go up to someone and shoot them in the head. I don’t do that kind of thing. It’s all indirect. It’s complicated. Your religion has a lot of wrong assumptions about how the world works, so forget whatever any priest has told you. You can trust me. That probably sounds ridiculous to you, but you can.”

Boldwood sank into his chair, his face frozen in befuddled shock. He looked at the watch hanging in the air, the manacles on the floor, and back to Crowley’s wings. He swallowed.

“This doesn’t feel like a dream, so it cannot be,” he said. 

Crowley dared to take a step closer. Boldwood watched him carefully.

“It’s not. This is real, I promise you.”

For an interminably long moment, Boldwood didn’t react. Suddenly, he stood up, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward, keeping a cautious gaze on Crowley at all times. Crowley stayed perfectly still. The last thing he wanted right now was to startle him by making a wrong move. Padding around the table with slow steps, Boldwood came in close and peered into his eyes. Sweating, Crowley braced himself to see disgust in his face, but Boldwood regarded him with curiosity.

“Reptilian eyes,” he said, nervous but not terrified.

Crowley nodded, his tongue flicking to lick his lips. God bless it.

“I take snake form sometimes. I can never shake it off completely when I look human.”

He rubbed at his right sideburn, vanishing it for a moment to show his tattoo. Boldwood’s eyes widened again at the new miracle, but he didn’t shrink back this time.

“This is me,” Crowley said, pointing at it. “Same coloring. My shoes are also snakeskin. I don’t have much of a choice about that.”

Boldwood looked down at Crowley’s shoes before turning back to the watch hanging in the air. 

“Your watch,” he murmured. “It has a snake engraved on it. I wondered if there was some symbolism to that.”

“Less symbolism and more… I don’t know.” 

Shrugging, Crowley sauntered around the table and snatched the watch from the air, releasing it from the time freeze. He turned it over in his hands, frowning at the coiled snake inscribed on it. It wasn’t him. He never shaped his head like a cut diamond, but the kinship comforted him.

“It’s a point of pride” he said. “I won’t shy away from what I am, even if I have to hide my eyes from humans and my tattoo from polite society. But you won’t see any pitchforks or a forked tail or any of that nonsense. Humans came up with that. Although Satan does like to dress up in red with the horns and everything to scare people, but that’s just him. The rest of us don’t do that.”

“But you are a snake?” Boldwood asked. “Is that part of being a demon?”

Crowley nodded. 

“I wasn’t a snake before, no. But don’t go around thinking that snakes are inherently evil just because I turned into one when I was cast out of heaven. They’re not. Things are so much more complicated than you humans like to make it, shoving everything into neat, narrow categories, getting it wrong most of the time.”

A desperate laugh shuddered out of Boldwood’s mouth. He reached for the table, bracing himself on it, head sagging down to stare blearily at the battered wood.

“Getting things wrong,” he said. “I seem to have made a specialty of that. Part of me feels that I should think myself mad for even considering that this is real. But I can’t accept that, as wild and ludicrous as it is that I’m speaking to a demon. A helpful demon, no less.” He laughed again.

“We’re not all terrible. Alright, some demons are sadistic arseholes you should definitely stay away from, but most of us are just doing our jobs. Carrying on with existence.”

“Demons have jobs?” Boldwood asked, surprised.

“Of course we have jobs. Not even dukes are exempt from the old slog. Did you think that we just went around doing whatever we want? Disobedience is fine and all, but not for demons. We get in ghastly trouble if we disobey.”

The memory of a horrific scream scalded Crowley’s mind. Not his own, thank G--- Someone. He shook himself, trying to jerk the memory off. 

“So is it your job to spring me from prison?” Boldwood asked, suspicion clouding his eyes. “Would I be succumbing to hell’s devious wishes if I accept?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“What? No! They don’t even know I’m here. This is all me. I’m breaking you out because it’s ridiculous for you to be hanged for defending someone.”

“Through murder. Of course a demon would approve of that.”

“That’s not why….” 

Crowley growled. Why did humans always have to be so blessedly difficult? Just when Crowley grew accustomed to a new moral code, they changed it up again. 

“This would be a lot easier if we were still in Saxon times,” he grumbled. “Then you wouldn’t be in prison at all. You would just pay a wergild and be done with. No moralizing about whether the devil made you do it.”

“The devil didn’t make me do it.”

The vehemence in Boldwood’s offended voice surprised Crowley. Boldwood regarded him like the very notion that his actions weren’t his own offended him to his core. 

“I have never subscribed to the idea that we are mere puppets managed by divine forces, and I’m not about to now, no matter what you say. Even if the nature of your existence seems to prove otherwise. Influenced, yes, perhaps, but I’m the one who chose to pull the trigger, who sacrificed my own standing with the law and God for Mrs. Troy’s benefit. I won’t allow anyone else to claim credit for it.”

Crowley stared at him without blinking, then a wide grin grew on his face. That furious fire. He was so much like Aziraphale in that moment that it hurt to look at him. But that wasn’t why Crowley was smiling.

“You refuse to be a puppet,” Crowley said. “Well done. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Isn’t the reason that I remind you of your friend?”

Boldwood paled, all fervor draining out of him as he grasped the back of the chair, shaking. What was he suddenly so afraid of? Crowley rushed forward, but there was no need, for the reason became obvious the instant that Boldwood spoke next.

“Your friend,” he said, his voice the ghost of a whisper, frightened. “The friend whom you’ve known for most of your life. Was that part a lie, or is he… Please tell me he isn’t!”

Oh. Of course he thought that. Crowley stepped forward, barely stopping himself from touching Boldwood’s shoulder. It might upset him even more if he did. 

“He’s not a demon,” Crowley said. 

Boldwood sagged in relief, all the way down into the chair, his legs failing under him, and rubbed his face, elbows on his knees.

“Thank God,” he said, stronger now. “If I physically resembled a demon, I don’t know what that would mean.”

A divine joke, most likely. But going into that whole mess would only confuse Boldwood even more, and he was upset enough as it was. Grabbing the other chair, Crowley pulled it over and sat in front of Boldwood so that he wasn’t looming over him like the creepy demon that he was. He rubbed his palms together, considering how to phrase his next fun revelation. 

“It’s a coincidence,” Crowley said. “Like you said when we had dinner—”

“Oh God, I had dinner with a demon,” Boldwood exclaimed, looking horrified. “And I invited you to dinner in my home. Does that… That doesn’t create any sort of bond between us, does it? Is that why you’re here? Am I beholden to you now?”

Boldwood looked so frightened that he might keel over from a heart attack at any moment. Worry pumped in Crowley’s heart even as annoyance crept into his voice. 

“No. Sharing a meal doesn’t do anything. Nor does inviting me to your house. I’m a demon, not a vampire. And there are no vampires, before you think something else that isn’t true. Well, except for the bats. But that’s not the point. You said at dinner that there are only so many faces that human beings can have, so of course some are going to be close enough as to be doppelgangers. Demons and angels have the same sort of faces in this form, anyway, so that’s all it is. It would take generations of God tinkering with humans to get the right genes together in the right combinations to get a human who looked anything like one of her angels. It feels like too much trouble to be worth it, once I thought of it.” 

Unless God was really bored. Granted, she did have eternity. There were some phenomenally boring stretches.

“So,” Boldwood said, looking like he was barely keeping from sailing off the verge of panic. “Is your friend an ordinary man, then?”

Crowley’s face wrinkled in disgust.

“He’s certainly not ordinary. But no, he’s not human. He’s… Now don’t go reading anything into this. Like I just said, it’s a coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything. Aziraphale is… Well, he’s an angel.”

Boldwood stared.

“Is that a joke?” he asked after a moment of stumbling with his words. “He can’t be. You’re a demon. Is this all an elaborate prank? How can I trust anything you say? Demons lie. Don’t tell me that’s not what you do. Humanity can’t possibly have gotten everything wrong.”

Crowley groaned in annoyance.

“Fine. Demons lie. But you know what? Angels lie, too. Especially Aziraphale. Even to me, and I’m sure I don’t catch it every time.”

Pain flared in Crowley’s jaw. He’d been clenching it too tightly. The strain of freezing time for so long was beginning to wear at him.

“Listen,” Crowley said. “I’ll explain the rest later, but I can’t keep time frozen for much longer. I need to know if you want to leave this prison alive and in one piece. Don’t you dare say no, because I’ll be very cross, and with the current state of your soul, it’s more likely that you’ll end up in hell, and you do not want to go there, trust me on that.”

Boldwood peered at him with narrowed, incredulous eyes.

“Trust you? Trust a demon to break me out of prison? Would that not ensure my place in hell?”

Crowley shook his head.

“It’s not as simple as that. I’m not tempting you to commit a sin or anything heinous. I’m helping you save yourself.”

“By breaking the law.”

“Hell doesn’t care about human laws. Do you know how many sets of laws there are across the globe? And they change all the time. We’d never be able to keep up if we determined who went to hell or heaven by those. Heaven isn’t going to take you in simply because you’re willing to sit nicely while they knot up a noose for you. Do you know how many self-righteous martyrs wound up in hell? Loads. Now come on, let’s go.”

Crowley stood up and dragged his chair back to the opposite side of the table, his head throbbing now. He’d never frozen time for this long. He should have made his explanations shorter, but there was too much to catch up Boldwood on. Which Boldwood wasn’t helping about at all, for he was still sitting down, staring at Crowley like he might cackle, burst into flames, and drag him down to hell any second.

“What if I say no?” Boldwood said, all stubborn defiance.

Crowley groaned, throwing his head back.

“Boldwood, please. Why would you ever want to stay here? You don’t actually want to die, do you?”

“No, of course not, but I told you, I won’t live my life as a fugitive.”

“And I told you, I can make it appear that you died so nobody will look for you.”

“How?”

“Simple. I’ll miracle a fake body identical to you, set it up in this chair here, and make it look like you died from a heart attack. And the guards who saw me will conveniently forget that they did so.”

Boldwood huffed out a disturbed laugh.

“Easy enough for a demon to do. But do I have a choice? You could just force me out the door whenever you like.”

Crowley rubbed his forehead, more drained and aching by the minute.

“That’s not how it works. That isn’t that simple.” 

“Do I have a choice? That’s what I want to know. Are you cajoling me as a pretense or am I compelled to do what you want?”

“Compelled? I’m not compelling you to do anything. I put ideas in humans’ heads, sure, but it’s your choice whether or not you act on that. No, the devil didn’t make you do it. No demon made you do anything, either. Nor an angel. That’s a cheap excuse for when you don’t want to own up to something. Which is why it was so refreshing when you complained about that. Bravo. Don’t backpedal on me now.”

Grabbing his hat, Crowley brushed past Boldwood to the door and threw it open. Outside, a guard was frozen midstep while walking down the corridor. Crowley poked his head back into the room.

“Last chance,” he said. “In or out. It’s all on you. I’m not making you do anything.”

Like a candle flame swiftly snuffed out, Boldwood’s defiance retreated as helpless confusion crept in.

“Where would you take me?” he asked, his voice much weaker now.

“Wherever you want. You don’t even have to come with me. But I can help you get settled somewhere new.”

“Why? If your offer is genuine, why would you make it? Why do you want to help me?”

“Because I like you. You’re interesting, and not only because of who you look like. I enjoyed having dinner with you. And you’ve been handed a very short struck in a very fucked up situation. If you had killed Troy because you felt like it, I would leave you here. I don’t care about your human laws. You don’t deserve to hang or rot away in prison. It’s not right. So please come with me.”

Crowley got dangerously close to pleading there, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know if it really was a coincidence that Boldwood had crossed his path, but that didn’t matter anymore. Crowley cared about him, so much that he was willing to leave him here if Boldwood said “no” out of respect, no matter how much it would tear him up inside. 

_Please, come,_ he begged silently.

Boldwood didn’t look away from his eyes, his intense gaze so desperate that Crowley trembled at the heat of it. Sucking a breath deep into his lungs, Boldwood squared his shoulders and stood up, nodding.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

A breath of relief blew out of Crowley’s lungs, but he couldn’t relax yet. 

“Great,” he said, allowing himself a small smile. “Come on then. No time to waste.”

Boldwood didn’t dawdle leaving the cell, although he did stop short upon seeing the frozen guard.

“I need you to clear the doorway,” Crowley said, nudging Boldwood to the side. “I don’t want you seeing the fake body I’m about to concoct here. It might mess with your mind.”

Shooting Crowley a disturbed glance, Boldwood nodded and moved down the corridor before resuming his amazed staring at the guard. Leaving him be for now, Crowley returned inside the room and miracled a body with the same likeness as Boldwood. Humans were getting wiser about anatomy, so he had to craft more detail than in days past. A heaven of a thing to do while a migraine hammered in your head from freezing time. He sat the body on the chair and slumped it forward on the table, giving the appearance that Boldwood had expired from a sudden apoplexy. His breath shallow, Crowley rushed out to the corridor and past Boldwood, who was staring at a pencil that he kept moving in midair, only for it to stick wherever he left it. 

“This is extraordinary,” he murmured in wonder. 

“Gravity doesn’t have time to kick in,” Crowley said. “Come on. We need to get outside.”

Boldwood hurried after him to keep up with Crowley’s quickening steps, but he kept getting distracted by the frozen people around him as they ran through the lobby. When they pushed through the front doors, Boldwood stopped short, gasping at the still tableau before them. In the street, people, animals, and objects stood as statues in the midst of making their way through their daily lives. A flock of pigeons were arrested midflight, wings aloft. Behind them, men struggled to right an overturned grain cart, or so they would again once time resumed. A man walking on the pavement was caught mid-sneeze, not the most dignified of sights. Crowley allowed Boldwood a few moments to indulge in the bizarre landscape, but only because he looked so awed about what he was seeing, and that wasn’t an expression that Crowley had ever been able to resist on Aziraphale’s face. Yet it wasn’t the same as actually beholding Aziraphale. Despite their short acquaintance, Crowley had picked up on enough of Boldwood’s particular expressions and mannerisms to distinguish the difference between them, so he didn’t catch himself gasping in longing pain every second he beheld him. But it was still too close. Crowley caring about Boldwood as an individual person, regardless of his similarity to Aziraphale, added a heap of bewilderment to the whole affair. 

“I feel as if I’m in a dream,” Boldwood said, regarding a dog barking at a passing horse. “I’m not sure I can trust my own senses.”

Crowley rubbed his aching forehead, stifling a pained groan.

“Forget your senses and trust me,” he said. “Let’s put some distance between us and the prison. Then I’ll get them all moving again and it won’t feel like a dream at all.”

Boldwood huffed out a laugh, but he granted Crowley the mercy of following his hurrying steps.

“I doubt that,” Boldwood said. “I’m fleeing prison with a demon who claims that I’m identical to an angel. No dream I’ve ever had has been so fantastical.” 

He gazed up at the sky, where the sun sought to break through the blanket of cumulus clouds, a smile of wonderment and happiness on his face. Crowley stumbled. He blamed the uneven pavement, but he knew better. The twin images of Aziraphale’s and Boldwood’s joyful expressions mixed in his mind. He couldn’t differentiate the two, no matter how hard he tried, especially not in the fragile state his overwrought mind labored in. The pain was so acute that his vision blurred, and now seeing Boldwood so happy had stolen his breath. Forcing himself to look away from him, Crowley dove into an alley a few meters away. Ascertaining that there was no one around to see them, he called for Boldwood to hurry up. 

“Alright,” Crowley said. “I’m going to unfreeze time now.”

“Shouldn’t I change clothes first?” Boldwood said, frowning down at his prison uniform.

“Shit,” Crowley cursed. How the heaven had he forgotten that? “Yes, you should. I should. Don’t panic. I’m going to swap out your clothes for one of the suits I’ve seen you wearing. You might feel a bit tingly.”

“What? How are you going to—”

Crowley snapped his fingers, unfreezing time in the same action. The cacophony of city life erupted around them and a breeze struck his skin, the sharp tension within him unspooling in the same instant. With a loud exhale, he sagged against the nearest wall, exhausted to his core. But he couldn’t relax yet. Concentrating, he tinkered with the memories of everyone who had seen him go into the prison.

“There,” he murmured, fixing his glasses, which had slid down his nose. “All done.” He stood up straight and stretched, popping his spine in glorious relief. His headache was already dissipating. “Ah, that’s so much better. How are you faring?”

Boldwood was patting himself down and checking his pockets, eyes wide as he inspected his outfit, the brown suit Crowley had first seen him in. Atop it, Crowley had added a wool coat, gloves, and a deep green scarf made of the finest cashmere. 

“Is that alright?” Crowley asked, frowning. “Did I get anything wrong? I can give you something different later if you like.”

Boldwood shook his head as if in a daze.

“No, not at all. It’s perfect in every detail. Even the inscription on my watch from my father.” Boldwood examined the back of his golden watch with delighted wonderment. “Are these real or mere illusions?”

“They’re real. I swapped them out for your uniform, which I destroyed immediately, so it won’t show up in your wardrobe to confuse people. Hopefully no one will miss it. I’ll explain more later. Right now, the sooner we get out of this town, the better.”

Crowley began leading him out into the street, which had resumed its customary noise and bustle. No one paid them a whiff of attention, too concerned with their own affairs. Crowley made sure it stayed that way, just in case anyone knew what Boldwood looked like. Wouldn’t want anyone wondering what he was doing strolling around free when he was meant to be rotting away in prison.

“Where are we going?” Boldwood asked with a shade of trepidation. 

“London. I know, you hate it, but I didn’t exactly think this through, so we need to figure out where you’re going to live from now on, and I’m sure you’re going to bowl me over with questions the first chance you get, so my house is the best place for it.”

“You really do live in London, then? How much of what you told me is true?”

“A lot, actually, but I’m not telling you any more until we’re alone on the train car. If you keep being shocked by everything I say, like you have been doing so far, it will take a miracle for me to be able to curb everyone’s attention.”

“I hardly think my reactions are unwarranted,” Boldwood said, irritated despite his dignified tone. “You have asked me to believe many things that I previously thought impossible. Or that beliefs that I did have were wrong.”

Crowley stretched out his arms in self-mockery, a sardonic grin on his face.

“That’s my specialty. Frustrating and appalling people is what I do.”

“I didn’t say appalling.”

Boldwood’s lower tone was much too pensive for Crowley’s liking. If he started reading things into Crowley’s moment of self-effacement, he’d be impossible to deal with. 

“Maybe we should stay quiet until we get on the train,” Crowley said. “It’s safer that way.”

He had meant to rebuff Boldwood’s attempt to analyze his crappy phrasing, but his exhaustion got the better of him. Never mind. He hoped at least that Boldwood would be polite enough to let things be. 

He was. Boldwood didn’t utter a peep the rest of the way to the train station. It was with an immensely grateful sigh that Crowley let them into a first-class cabin on the train. The space itself was probably too small for Boldwood after his recent travails, which was apparent by the longing way with which he gazed out the window from the moment that they climbed inside. He stayed close to the window, sitting properly, but tucked in as close as he could muster. He faced the back of the train, so Crowley took the seat opposite, stretching his legs out in front of him. Leaning back against the headboard, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The ache in his head had evaporated completely by this point, but exhaustion still lingered deep in his being. He could do with a nap. But not yet. Boldwood wouldn’t appreciate a sleeping demon for a travel companion. Worse, he might run off while Crowley slumbered. 

Which was his right. Crowley wouldn’t force him to remain by his side. But he would regret parting ways. But Boldwood wouldn’t leave. He was embarking on this journey as much out of curiosity and fascination over Crowley as for his desire for freedom. Crowley knew that much. If freedom were all of it, Boldwood would have been fine living the life of a fugitive, yet that hadn’t been enough of an incentive, had it? Crossing his arms, Crowley regarded Boldwood, taking advantage of his tinted lenses to do so covertly. Boldwood gazed out the window with a slight wrinkle between his eyes, his expression a mix of amazement, disbelief, and joy. He gripped the armrest with his left hand while rubbing his knee with his right. Every so often, he glanced at Crowley, a silent question budding on his lips, yet every time they parted to ask it, he turned away. The conductor calling out, “All aboard!” made him jump. He cast an embarrassed smile Crowley’s way before resuming his vigil, yet his feet shuffled restlessly. When the train lurched forward, he gasped, clutching tighter, and all but pressed his face against the window to watch the city that would have been his death recede in the distance. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked.

Boldwood nodded, biting his lip. He blinked rapidly. Were those tears shining in his eyes? They were, weren’t they?

“I think,” Boldwood said, his voice breaking, “it’s hitting me that it’s real. This is actually happening. It’s a lot to take in. I haven’t wrapped my head around it. Nowhere near it.”

Crowley could empathize. Although, in his case, he’d had to come to grips with being thrown into prison, not being sprung out of one. 

“It takes time,” Crowley said.

“I stopped considering the rest of my life once I pulled the trigger. It was over. I accepted that as gracefully as I could.” A mirthless grin yanked at his lips. “Yet now I may have years again, not merely months. And not years spent in prison. And in the most fantastical way possible.”

Crowley sat up and leaned forward on his elbows, rubbing his hands together. A weird mix of dread and excitement thrummed though him. 

“You will have years,” Crowley insisted.

“As many as I want?” 

Boldwood grinned in jest. Crowley smiled back, relaxing a bit.

“My powers don’t extend that far. I can’t make you live as long as Methuselah.”

“I don’t think I’d want to. Especially not if it carries on like it has so far. Not that it can, obviously. There’s no more prospect of marriage in my future, for one.”

Boldwood’s fingers shifted uneasily in his lap.

“Have you not had a happy life?” Crowley asked, dreading the answer.

“More of a comfortable one than a happy one. Materially, I could have anything I wanted, within reason. But you know my emotional life has been less than ideal.”

Crowley hung his head. He shouldn’t have asked.

“I don’t know if I can give you a better one,” he said, sheepish. “You’re going to have to stay away from the society you knew, from anyone who might recognize you. It’d be easier if you left Britain.”

“No.”

Crowley was taken aback by the desperation in Boldwood’s voice.

“I don’t want to live in exile,” he said, gazing out the window at the rolling wheat fields with a deep fondness, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. “These hills, these fields… The singing of robins, of goldfinches… I’ve known them my whole life. I know I must leave this country for different landscapes, but to go overseas where nothing is familiar…” He dropped his head, sighed. “If it’s impossible, then so be it, but if it were feasible for you to find some way to make it work, I would be immensely grateful.”

Crowley shouldn’t promise. It would be so much more difficult to find a way for Boldwood to remain on this island, much less in England. He really should have thought this through before he dashed across the country to rescue Boldwood. But what else had he been supposed to do? He certainly wouldn’t have let him stay in prison without at least giving him the choice. 

“Alright,” Crowley said. “I’ll see if I can work something out. But I can’t give you any guarantees.”

Relief sagged Boldwood's body forward.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling shakily. “I’m most grateful.”

It did things to Crowley, that smile. Confusing things. Affection burst inside him, at Boldwood and Aziraphale both, the two twisted together in bewildering ways, retangling themselves just when Crowley thought that he had reached a healthy balance between them. He strove to picture Boldwood with a different face and summon the same level of fondness. The circumstances of Boldwood’s tragedy and self-sacrifice remaining the same, Crowley would have still been sympathetic to his plight, yet he wouldn’t have had the chance to, for he and Boldwood would have passed each other by without the enticing awakening of curiosity. It was only through Boldwood’s physical kinship to Aziraphale that Crowley had been drawn to him and compelled to save him from his infuriating doom. 

No, this was not God. It was just a stupid coincidence. God didn’t give a fig for Crowley. Ten million angels thrown out of heaven. Why would she be singling him out to toy with? If she even remembered that he existed while she was busy tinkering with her favorite creation or making a new solar system or whatever it was she did these days. 

“So you trust me now, then, do you?” Crowley asked, taking advantage of his sunglasses to look away without turning his head. 

Boldwood’s smile grew nervous, but the emotion vanished quickly.

“I suppose I must,” he said. “I’m not certain of my judgment. Impulsive decisions haven’t fared me well lately. But I’m here now. I would have regretted not coming.”

“Of course you would have. No more strolling into jail cells and calmly letting yourself die, got it? You don’t deserve that.”

An amused smile curled the right side of Boldwood’s lips.

“Should I trust what a demon tells me I deserve? I’m still uncertain about that. It is your job to trick humanity, after all.”

“I’m off the clock. I’m telling you because I know it. The real crime would have been if you’d hanged. Saving you is way more angelic than demonic. It’s not demonic at all, actually.”

“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it. I don’t know any angels I can ask.”

Grimacing, Crowley slumped in his seat and crossed his arms. 

“You could ask Aziraphale, but he’s gone on holiday who knows where. No idea when he’ll be back.”

“Is he really an angel?” Boldwood asked, frowning like believing it was too frightening.

Crowley nodded. 

“That he is. As stubborn and proud as the worst of them. But also infinitely better. I really do think that it’s a coincidence that you look like him, though. Here, I’ll show you a picture.”

He hadn’t wanted to do so earlier, but there was no sense in hiding it now. A year before their estrangement, Crowley had his photograph taken and gave a copy to Aziraphale, who had blushed and looked as nervous as if Gabriel were snooping over his shoulder right at that second, but he’d accepted it in the end. The next week, he went to a photography studio and gifted Crowley a picture of himself. In it, he wore his favorite suit, which he hadn’t taken off in years, and wore his best, fuzzy hat. Crowley had spent many a day poring over the details of Aziraphale’s frame. The line of his nose. The soft curl that peeked under his hat on his forehead. The gentle, yet proud expression on his face. The photograph had lived in Crowley’s wallet ever since, only not becoming dogeared by a miracle. He couldn’t have Aziraphale’s last gift disintegrating on him. 

Boldwood took the picture with reverential hands, holding it so cautiously that the paper barely flexed under his fingers as he perused it. His eyes widened, lips parting in awe.

“I thought,” he said, “that our likeness might be more like with siblings that look really similar, but we truly could be twins. How can you be sure that this is a coincidence?”

Crowley raised a brow.

“Can you think of a reason why it wouldn’t be?” 

Boldwood was silent, seeking an answer but finding none. 

“I’m afraid not. I don’t think so highly of myself as to believe that I resemble an angel on purpose.” He continued frowning at the picture. “You haven’t spoken to him, then?”

An immense weariness sank into Crowley’s bones. 

“No,” he sighed. “He was already gone when I got back to London. He left a sign on his shop door saying that he was away. It said that he’d be back in the new year, but that could mean anything. New Year’s Day. Easter. Three years from now. Aziraphale isn’t great at keeping track of time.”

“I suppose it must be harder when you live forever. Not as important.”

“We’re not as fixated on it as humans are, no, but we do have due dates and schedules we have to keep, so we can’t just ignore it altogether.”

Boldwood shook his head with an amused smile.

“Demons and angels have due dates. Remarkable. I would never have imagined.”

Taking one last, long look at the photograph, he handed it back to Crowley, yet he seemed as reluctant to give it up as Crowley was eager to receive it. Crowley’s heart bled a bit as he regarded it before tucking it away safely in his wallet. Boldwood nervously rubbed his hands on his thighs, a gesture so familiar that Crowley ceased breathing for a moment. 

“You can ask me anything you want now,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “Well, not anything. You know what, ask away. I’ll let you know if I don’t want to answer something.”

Boldwood regarded him pensively for a moment.

“Would it be too impertinent to ask how you and Aziraphale became friends? The real story this time.”

Crowley’s desperately restored confidence flagged. Of course Boldwood wanted to know that. But it was one thing to be alright with associating with a demon (a tall order as it was) and quite another to learn that Crowley wasn’t just some random demon, but _that_ demon. The Serpent of Eden. Tempter of Eve. Engineer of the Fall of Humankind. Christians had a bit of a sore spot about that. Leonardo had been fascinated upon learning this, but he hadn’t been the church going type. Boldwood, though… If he was floundering between being alright with this mad situation and charting an escape, this might tip him over the edge. 

“I’m afraid I’m not ready to tell that one yet,” Crowley said, worrying at the carpet with his heel. 

Boldwood tried not to look too disappointed.

“Oh. Of course.”

Crowley scrambled for another topic before Boldwood kept wondering about this closed door.

“How about I tell you about fighting King Arthur and his knights?”

Boldwood gaped at him in disbelief.

“King Arthur was real?”

Crowley grinned. Mission accomplished.


	3. Chapter 3

Their conversation carried on in the same general vein, with Crowley revealing shocking truths and Boldwood being astounded or amused, sometimes both. Crowley tried to stick to more lighthearted anecdotes, and so did Boldwood, for he didn’t inquire about anything too serious or gut-wrenching. They’d had enough of that for one day. For one decade, even. Exhaustion leeched their energies, both of them sagging in their seats as the trip wore on, the train’s vibrations digging into their bones. Boldwood’s eyes slipped shut at times, his attention drifting between Crowley and the countryside rushing past them. 

As they entered the city, their speech trailed off, and Boldwood’s vigor was renewed at the prospect of soon being able to wander outside again. He leaned forward, peering out the window with keen interest at the soot covered buildings and raucous crowds filling the streets. The route didn’t go through the best parts of town, so it was hardly the most appealing welcome, even if it was free.

“I miss the countryside already,” Boldwood said, disheartened by the noise and dirt.

Crowley joined him by the window. It didn’t look that great out there at all. The sky loomed with grey clouds and detritus spewed forth by the steam powered machines humans had taken a liking to this century. London had always been a stinky, muddy, offal ridden mess, but there was no shambles that humans couldn’t make worse. Crowley hadn’t even had to lift a finger, though he told his superiors that tossing waste out the window onto innocent pedestrians had been his idea. That and the smog problem. It wasn’t his fault if the humans thought of it first, while he personally found it vile and unlivable. No one in hell was checking up on him, anyway. He could spin as many fanciful tales as he pleased. For example, right now he was supposedly tempting hapless humans into committing all sorts of atrocities. He was most certainly not rescuing a man from a horrible fate out of the goodness of his heart. Nope. What heart? Demons weren’t allowed to have hearts. It was against regulation. 

“I’ll get you back to the countryside as soon as I can,” Crowley told Boldwood. “I promise.”

No heart at all.

It was a short trip from the station to his house in Mayfair once he convinced every pedestrian and vehicle to stay out of their hansom’s way as it carried them through the streets. They stopped at an eatery a short distance away to get Boldwood a sandwich. Crowley would have preferred for him to eat something more substantial, but it would have been a longer wait, and Boldwood’s stomach was growling with hunger. Crowley should have thought of that before they boarded the train. They wouldn’t have risked staying long enough for a proper meal there, either, but they could have at least grabbed something. Not that Boldwood even mentioned being hungry until they arrived in London, but Crowley should have still thought of it. 

Thick ham, cheddar, and lettuce sandwich in hand, they arrived at Crowley’s front door. The building was as grand and impressive as the rest of the ones in the neighborhood, yet passerby were disinclined to wonder who lived in it the moment that they glanced at it. No one ever used the silver knocker hanging on the black door or scrapped their boots at the top of the short staircase leading to it. No one until today, that is. Crowley’s clothes were automatically free of dirt, but Boldwood’s poor boots were covered in mud stirred up by the recent rain. He rubbed his soles against the boot scrapper that had only ever been decoration, unaware of the momentousness of what he was doing.

“What is it?” he asked when he caught Crowley staring.

Crowley shook himself out of his sudden daze.

“Nothing. Let’s go in.”

Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, leading the way inside. With a click of his fingers, the curtains opened to let in what little sunlight pierced through the gloom and the gas lamps lit up, revealing a décor that had only been meant for him, not visitors. Despite preferring a simpler layout, he now winced at the sparseness of it. One sofa. One armchair. The space that should be the dining room had neither table nor chairs, since he didn’t like eating here. The walls were bare wood with hardly any decoration except for a couple of paintings and drawings. But what little furniture there was made up for the simplicity of the rest. The sofa and armchair were crushed velvet with an intricate fleur de lis pattern in a grey so dark that one had to lean in close to distinguish it against the black background. The lamps were of exquisite workmanship, the crystal engraved with doves. Crowley had hesitated before buying them when he ran across them, heart stopping at the face that formed in his mind at the sight of that singular shape, but his hands reached for his wallet before he could stop himself. Potted plants perched around the windows, bright and leafy even in the gloom of winter. On the wall across from the sofa hung a sketch of one of Leonardo’s failed flying machines. Boldwood noticed it immediately, heading straight for it, eyes wide with amazement.

“Is that an original drawing?” he asked, peering at it.

“Of course it is. He gave it to me when he was cleaning up his studio. I like it, so I put it up. You want to see La Gioconda?”

Boldwood’s excitement grew, eyes widening with bated anticipation. 

“Yes, please.”

Crowley led him upstairs to his study, which had the most furniture in the house. The desk was dark mahogany, the legs carved with angelic figures. The chair had been stolen from Venice at some point in the 16th century, it’s back intricately carved and cushioned with red velvet. A bookcase stretched across the back wall, along with a waist high cabinet. La Gioconda hung on the wall beside it on an ornate, wooden frame, smiling teasingly for the rest of eternity. 

“Voila,” Crowley said, standing next to it while gesturing to it with a flourish. 

Boldwood’s enticing wonderment made him smile. No one had ever seen this drawing since Crowley had bought it from Leonardo, except for Aziraphale. He wasn’t hiding it deliberately, it simply never left his residence and no one came here. 

When was the last time that Aziraphale had visited an abode of his? Crowley couldn’t remember. 

“It’s exquisite.”

Boldwood’s voice snapped Crowley back to the present.

“It was a steal. I only paid fifteen florins for it. I think. We were drunk, so my memory is a little fuzzy.”

Boldwood looked away from the drawing and into Crowley’s eyes, or where he perceived Crowley’s eyes to be, for Crowley still wore his sunglasses. With a hesitant hand, Crowley reached up and removed them, staring steadily back at Boldwood. A flinch crossed Boldwood’s face, the tiniest tightening of his jaw and wrinkling of his brow, but he didn’t look away or step back. 

“Do my eyes bother you?” Crowley asked, part of him screaming to flee and hide. “I can put the glasses back on.”

“No.”

Boldwood shook his head so quickly that Crowley was startled by his vehemence. 

“Apologies,” Boldwood said, licking his bottom lip. “Your appearance doesn’t bother me. I shouldn’t have given you that impression.”

The glasses dug into Crowley’s palms as he twirled them in nervous fingers.

“It’s alright if you’re disturbed by me. Who wouldn’t be? Even Leo was at first.”

Boldwood gasped in surprise.

“You told him?”

“Only near the end. If he rejected me then, I wouldn’t lose too much time with him.” 

It had only taken a day for Leo to come around to Crowley’s immense relief, but the previous times that he had tried to be honest about his nature with human friends inculcated in Christian theology had been unmitigated disasters. One had pretended to be alright with it only to try to trick him into drinking holy water. Crowley had eschewed human friendship for nearly a century after that, too terrified of it happening again.

A self-deprecating smile twisted Crowley’s mouth as he regarded Boldwood, who looked so uncertain about what he should do or say, or even how he should feel about his bizarre circumstances. 

“You can leave anytime, you know,” Crowley said. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“But I need your help.”

Crowley’s face twisted further. 

“If that’s the only reason you’re sticking around, I don’t mind. Once I get you set up, you don’t have to see me again if you decide that it’s too much to associate with a demon.”

“I’ve not said that,” Boldwood said, but the shadow in his eyes was less than convincing.

“I know. You need time to adjust and all that. I’m just saying that if, once the adrenaline wears off and you’ve had time to process, if you decide that it’s too much for you, that’s alright. No hellish consequences will come your way.”

Boldwood opened his mouth to speak, a protest forming on his face, but his stomach gurgled, arresting what he had been about to say.

“Forgive me,” he said, instead, embarrassed.

“No, I’m the one who needs to be forgiven.”

Not that he ever would be.

“I should have let you eat as soon as you got here,” Crowley said, the back of his neck burning with shame. 

How had he let himself get so wrapped up in his own problems as to forget Boldwood’s hunger? Rushing to his desk, he pulled out the chair and miracled a place setting and napkins.

“Here,” he said. “I don’t have a dining room, so this will have to do. Do you want something to drink?”

Boldwood put his sandwich on the table.

“Yes, thank you. Tea would be marvelous. But—”

An apologetic assurance was ready to spring out of Boldwood’s mouth. Crowley could see it. Nope. He was not risking Boldwood lying about this just for a momentary boost in confidence.

“Tea it is,” Crowley proclaimed, ducking through the door. “I’ll be right back with that.”

Running down to the kitchen, he controlled the jittering in his hands and made a proper, slow cup of tea. No rushing. If he took long enough, maybe Boldwood would forget about reassuring him before he returned. Nicola had reassured him, too, and look how that had turned out. Crowley had been jumping at the sight of water for months after that. Not that he was afraid that Boldwood would douse him with some. That would be the height of ingratitude. Although maybe Crowley should keep him away from churches just in case. Had bringing him here been a good idea? What was wrong with a hotel? A nice, neutral zone with no significance to Crowley whatsoever, nor any objects that meant anything to him. Sure, not following through on showing him La Gioconda would have been odd after he’d spent so long bragging about it, and this was the safest place for Boldwood until Crowley worked out his new living arrangements. But it had been rather rash, hadn’t it? And now he’d left him alone in his study. Boldwood could look at anything in there. No human could break into Crowley’s house, so there was no need to worry about burglars. But once in the house…

If Crowley were in his shoes, he might be inclined to rummage through a drawer or two. It wasn’t like they were friends. Crowley would like to be. They’d certainly been friendly enough on the train. Boldwood had even been calm and chatty. But what if that was only the calm before the storm? Boldwood hadn’t had a chance to think things through, to worry about the fate of his immortal soul. Sure, he probably already thought that he was going to hell due to the whole murder thing, but associating with a demon… Oh no, there was no redemption from that. Surely not. Not unless you tried to slaughter said demon. Wasn’t that what Nicola had said? Killing Crowley would assure his place in heaven, while letting him go on his way would damn him. It was bollocks. That wasn’t how the system worked, but humans insisted on believing whatever stupid notion had been drilled into their heads. And they never, ever believed a demon if they thought that they knew better. An angel, oh that was different. Angels could say that the sky was green, puppies were evil, and eating glass was good for your health and humans would believe that. Angels could get away with anything they damn well pleased. 

Leo had believed Crowley, though. He hadn’t tried to harm him. He’d had asked everything he could think of, his eyes shining with excited glee, and a grateful Crowley had answered every question. Much like Boldwood had done so far. Perhaps he would be a Leo and not a Nicola. Perhaps Crowley should hope again. 

``````````

When Crowley returned to his study, Boldwood was too busy devouring his sandwich to fuss about reassuring him. He accepted the tea with sincere thanks and took a delighted sip. His eyes closed with silent pleasure as he inhaled the bitter scent, yet in a way that was unlike enough from Aziraphale’s that Crowley didn’t confuse the two. He miracled an extra chair for himself to keep Boldwood company, filling the silence with fun anecdotes about Leo and his time in Italy. After Boldwood finished eating, Crowley showed him into the space that had been meant as a dining room, but which he’d chosen to keep his plants and bathtub instead, and lent Boldwood a pair of pajamas and a dressing gown before leaving him be. The bathtub was large, almost like a small pool, filled with pleasantly warm water that Boldwood once again thanked him copiously for. 

Boldwood emerged smiling and refreshed. Yet a reddish sheen in his eyes suggested that more than happiness had accompanied him in the tub. His eyes had been closing his weariness for a while, so Crowley led him to a spare room, which Crowley had quickly retrofitted into a spare bedroom, complete with all the furnishings and a couple of paintings that the National Gallery wouldn’t miss for a while. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” Crowley told him as he stepped out. “I mean it.”

He had just kept from putting his sunglasses back on. Every time that Boldwood looked into his eyes, Crowley braced himself for his disgust, but it hadn’t come, not so much as a flinch since the study. Boldwood’s gaze was as steady as it had ever been as he met Crowley’s eyes and smiled, that weary, relieved smile of those who are glad to have somewhere to lay their head after being out in the cold for too long.

“I will, thank you,” he said, emphasizing the last words. “Truly.”

“No problem. Good night.”

As Crowley shut the door behind him, his stomach curdled with worry. Warranted. Unwarranted. He didn’t care. His anxiety levels were sky high and there was nothing he could do about it but wait. More wretched waiting. He yearned to sneak outside and take another peek at Aziraphale’s shop in case he returned early, but there was no way that he was leaving Boldwood alone in his house. And hadn’t he just told him that he should ask if he needed anything? How was Boldwood supposed to do that if Crowley wasn’t around? No, he was stuck here for the time being, choking on the urge to climb on the walls and drown in worried questions that did him no good.

Groaning, he went downstairs and checked on his plants, making sure that they were watered, grumbling at the ones that weren’t growing as well as they should. He cleaned out the tea kettle by hand. It was annoying, but would eat up some time. He filled out a compliance report, taking credit for the stench in London being particularly bad this season to make it look like he was being productive and not engaging in a rescue operation which would get him in a blood-curdling amount of trouble if anyone Down There found out about it. 

The hours dragged by, the second hand on all his clocks barely grinding by with the sluggishness of a snail taking a slimy stroll with no particular need to get anywhere. Satan, had there ever been such a slow night as this? Sleeping was an option, but what were the chances that he would actually be able to fall unconscious with his mind jittering at a million miles per hour? Nil, that was what it was. And sprawling out in bed while staring at the ceiling with the ticking of the clock pounding in his ears would only make him feel worse, so why even bother? 

Grabbing his map books, he pulled out everything of Britain that he could find, and miracled a pile of documents and lists of land ownership in the country, giving priority to sale notices. Boldwood loved farming too much to be happy doing anything else, so Crowley would have to find him another one, within the isle of Britain, if possible. A suitable farm that could keep him in the lifestyle in which he had been accustomed, but with enough remoteness from society that no one would suspect who he was. From what Crowley knew about him, Boldwood had always kept himself a bit apart, so that shouldn’t be too onerous. However, he had just hosted a Christmas party. A well attended one, in fact. Had he tired of his reclusive existence and wished to reach out? That would make things harder. Crowley would ask him when he woke up. Luckily, no one was on the lookout for a dead man, so that should give him some leeway.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn was long gone by the time that Crowley finished jotting down all the land purchase possibilities. As well as four cups of tea and one of coffee, which stood precariously at the edge of the table, as well as a half eaten bar of chocolate and a basket of biscuits he had ordered from a nearby bakery. Eating his feelings wasn’t usually his thing, but he needed some way to distract himself from the massive ball of worry that was Boldwood. He’d also gotten Boldwood’s breakfast while he was at it. Eggs, sausages, rashers, the lot. They were being kept hot under a metal covering, along with a fresh cup of tea.

A creak from an upstairs floorboard caught his attention. Crowley stiffened, smearing ink on the paper he wrote on. 

Boldwood was awake. 

Breath stopped in his throat, Crowley lowered his pen softly to the table and stood up, as quiet as a whisper. The house was still. Boldwood had moved on from the offending floorboard, or perhaps he had returned to bed, too exhausted to face the outside world. To face Crowley. As silently as he could manage, which was very silently indeed, Crowley crept up the stairs. Not a sound emerged from his padding feet. He stood at the landing, waiting, listening. From here, he could perceive faint footfalls from Boldwood’s room. He was moving away. To the window, perhaps? Sweat built on Crowley’s palms. H wiped it off against his trousers. His tongue flicked out, nervous, tasting the air for Boldwood’s scent. He didn’t need to smell like that when he was in this form, but his serpentine instincts popped up when he was nervous. Boldwood smelled of sweat, Crowley’s blankets, and the soap he’d used last night, but none of that could tell him what state of mind he was in.

The steps shifted direction, heading for the door.

Shit. Crowley was just standing there like a spying idiot. Not making a sound, he launched himself down the stairs and back into his study. Upstairs, the door opened. Crowley held his breath. 

“Sir Anthony?” Boldwood called out.

What could Crowley deduce from his tone? Caution. Nervousness. Uncertainty. That could mean anything. Nothing would get resolved until Crowley went upstairs and actually spoke to him. Heart in his throat, Crowley did just that, the picture of nonchalance as he went up the stairs, which he had most certainly not been on a minute before. Boldwood stood right outside the bedroom door, fully dressed and combed, looking as cautious as his voice suggested, but with a trepidatious smile that didn’t reassure Crowley in the least.

“Mr. Boldwood,” Crowley said, smiling. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you.”

Boldwood’s eyes pinched as he met Crowley’s own, mouth opening slightly with the startled expression of someone who was confronting the fact that what he’d thought had been a dream was cold reality. Tension gripped Crowley’s muscles, though he tried not to show it. Slowly, he unfurled his wings, just enough so that Boldwood could see that they were there.

“It’s all real,” Crowley said softly. “Everything you remember really happened.”

“Of course.” 

Boldwood’s voice was much less confident than he surely wanted it to be. His hand tightened on the door handle, fingers flexing. Crowley felt like thin ice was about to give way under his feet.

“Have you been able to process any of what happened?” he asked.

Boldwood’s lips tightened. He sucked in a breath through his nose, looking away.

“I’m not sure. I feel less giddy. Yesterday, everything felt very surreal. I feel more grounded today. And more… wary.”

Crowley clutched the handrail. He nodded.

“Yes, that makes sense. Like I said, you can leave whenever you want. I won’t try to stop you.”

“I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. I have no money, no documents.”

“I can get you those. I’ll get you anything you need. There’s food downstairs if you want. And I’ve made a list of potential properties I could get for you to get you set up. You don’t need to be scared of me.”

Boldwood hesitated.

“I suppose I’m already damned for murder, but am I making it worse on myself for accepting your help?”

“No. You’re not. No more than you’d be saved by accepting an angel’s help. And don’t be sure you’re damned for the murder, either. There’s a lot of factors involved.”

A befuddled frown crossed Boldwood’s brow and he dropped his head, sighing.

“I apologize,” he said. “I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m not immensely grateful for your help. I am, deeply so. This is just so strange to me.”

“I understand. Don’t worry about it. That’s why I left Weatherbury without leaving you a note. It was tricky between us from the start. I didn’t want to make it worse. I should have kept on walking that day I saw you on the street without saying.”

“If you had, I would be in prison still, likely awaiting a death sentence. I doubt the circumstances would have differed if we hadn’t met.”

Crowley rubbed the handrail with his fingernails.

“Maybe they would have if I’d stayed.”

Boldwood looked down at his feet, lips tensing. He worried at his right trouser pocket. 

“Perhaps,” he said. “But there’s no way of knowing that. Besides, it would have been a bad idea.”

Disappointment pinched in Crowley’s gut.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“And Mrs. Troy is better off without that abusive wretch in her life. Even if I’m damned for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But again, the damning isn’t certain.”

A short laugh huffed out of Boldwood’s throat.

“You mean if I repent? Being in a demon’s company wouldn’t help with that, surely?”

“Not really, no. But you don’t sound terribly regretful, anyway.”

“I’m not.”

An amused brow rose on Crowley’s face. Whatever prevarication Boldwood felt, he had none over this. 

“Well then, it sounds like it’s a moot point, anyway.”

He smiled. Boldwood didn’t smile back. 

“I’m taking rather a lot on faith. How can I know that I can trust you?”

“You can.”

“You are a demon. Is lying not your trade?”

Crowley recoiled, growling as if Boldwood had lashed out at him.

“No, no, no. Don’t go on sssounding like Aziraphale now. Not like that.”

He bit his tongue before he could betray himself further, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth, smothering the hissing grinding in his throat. He trembled, shocked by the force of his outburst. He thrust his hands in his pockets, looking away. Boldwood’s startled gaze crawled over him, even more frightened now. A sob drowned in Crowley’s throat. He was supposed to be calming Boldwood down, convincing him that Crowley was safe, not a threat. But he had to fuck it up, didn’t he? Why not? Fuck up he was, and fuck up he would remain. 

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s head jerked up at the sound of Boldwood’s voice, eyes narrowed. There was no fear in his eyes, nor the rest of his face. Nor in his body, now that Crowley got a good look at it. Oh. He was sure that he’d seen… What he’d dreaded to see? Probably. Boldwood looked genuinely sorry at calling him a liar. Well, that was something that Aziraphale had never done. Barely keeping from reaching in his pocket for his glasses, Crowley nodded jerkily, fingers flexing. 

“It’sss alright,” he said, quiet. “I’m a demon. What elssse can you expect?”

“It’s not alright. You have done nothing to suggest that you have been less than honest with me. I have no right to accuse you of anything.”

“I lied to you when we met. I ssspun a whole web of liesss.”

A confused frown wrinkled Boldwood’s brow.

“When you couldn’t tell me the truth. Why are you hissing?”

Hissing. Oh, shit, he was hissing. His irises had probably grown too with the way that Boldwood was staring at them. Hissing again (fuck!), Crowley turned away, grabbed his sunglasses and jammed them on his face. 

“It’sss nothing,” he said, retreating a step down the stairs. “It will passs.”

Could he not say words that had “s”s in them?! 

“It’s clearly not nothing. I’m truly very sorry for offending you.”

“You didn’t offend me. It’sss the truth. Why would I get angry at you for sssaying the truth?”

“I don’t know if it’s the truth. I’m merely going by what I’ve been taught, a lot of which has clearly been wrong.”

The bones of Crowley’s hands groaned as he clutched the handrail. His head lowered, he tried to control his breathing, to still the trembling. Why was he so freaked out? Many people had called him a liar throughout the millennia, including Aziraphale. And he was a liar. Why should this bother him so much? 

But he had never lied to Aziraphale. Never. Not once. But did Aziraphale ever believe him when Crowley assured him of that? No. because Aziraphale lied to him. The angel lied. Not often and not easily and Crowley knew half the time though he kidded himself that he didn’t, but he did. Did Aziraphale feel guilty about it? Maybe. But he still did it, probably telling himself that it was okay. It wasn’t really bad for an angel to be dishonest if it was to a demon. Surely Crowley lied too, so that made it even more alright. Of course the demon lied. It was in his nature. How could he help himself?

Boldwood moved forward. Crowley twitched, fight or flight response set to flight. Embarrassment heated his entire face. Boldwood stopped, hands held uncertainly in front of him. As suddenly as it had come, Crowley’s frightened anger deserted him in an instant and he sagged against the handrail, groaning as he sank onto the step, turning his back to Boldwood. He dropped his face into his hands, humiliated. 

“Any chance we can pretend this never happened?” Crowley asked miserably.

“I’m not sure that would be for the best.”

“Why not? I think it’sss a brilliant idea.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to. The force of your reaction to what I said is too painful for me to ignore. I cannot help looking and sounding like Aziraphale, but I do. I didn’t mean to hurt you by accusing you of the same thing that he has.”

“How do you know he wasssn’t right to?”

“I know the difference between the look of a man whose been falsely accused and one who is guilty. And I see no reason for you to put on a show like this to convince me. Also, you looked intimidating with your irises widening like that and that serpent-like hissing, which would be counterintuitive to that purpose. You’re also shaking. I… I was shaking not long ago before I opened the door and called for you.”

Crowley raised his head, but he didn’t turn his head.

“You were ssscared of me when you saw me.”

“More before I saw you than when I did. My world has been turned upside down. For the past couple of years, I’ve made mistake after mistake and that was while knowing how I should behave, even if I didn’t do so. But now… I wondered sometimes if our idea of heaven and hell was correct or not. There are so many variations across so many faiths. And how do I know that my ancestors, before the Reformation, weren’t the ones in the right? But I never expected to meet an actual demon. Or to be told that I physically resembled an angel. Or to commit murder. None of this. No instruction on manners or social niceties prepared me for this. Yesterday, my amazement carried me forward, as well as my desire not to die, to have the proper life you promised me. But today, the reality of my situation, of your nature, is sinking in. You have shown me no reason to fear you, yet I confess I am afraid. Forgive me, please.”

Groaning, Crowley dropped his head into his hands. 

“Sstop asssking me to forgive you. You don’t need me to forgive you. You’re done nothing. Of courssse you’re afraid of me. What human who hass been raissed as you have wouldn’t be afraid? There’ss nothing I can do or show you that I’m trustworthy. Unless Aziraphale comesss back and tellss you so, but then again, he is friendss with a demon. That’ss not ssusspect at all.”

Crowley’s wings jerked, flapping once before shrinking against his body as he hugged himself with them. A gasp sounded behind him, as apprehensive as ever. 

“I’m ssorry,” Crowley mumbled. “I don’t want you to be afraid, essspecially not of me.”

A step, halting, trepidatious, approached him. Crowley inhaled sharply, startled. That step was followed by another, then another, continuing until Boldwood crept down the stairs to sit beside Crowley, looking as if he were facing a venomous adder about to strike. He’d be half right, but Crowley would never attack him, not without cause, and he couldn’t think of any reason that he’d need to unless Boldwood attacked him. Inhaling a steadying breath, Boldwood turned to him, meeting his eyes.

“Would it be too much impertinence to ask you to remove your glasses?” Boldwood asked with an impressive steadiness despite his fear.

Slowly, Crowley reached up and took off the glasses. His irises wouldn’t have shrunken yet, not in his constant state of panic.

“Do they look the ssame?” he asked.

Boldwood nodded. Crowley sighed.

“It’ss a sstress reaction. Like the hisssing. I’m trying to control it. It’d be easssi… Eassier if there weren’t sso many bloody “s”s.”

“You revert to a more snake-like form when you’re stressed?”

“Yesss. I’d be a ssnake right now if you weren’t around. That probably doessn’t make you any lesss afraid of me.”

“Well, to be honest, I doubt I’d be less so if you turned into a hare.”

“Lesss intimidating, though.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Silence fell between them. Awkward, unpleasant silence. Boldwood rubbed his thighs, tapping his fingers, making Crowley’s insides crawl with shame and homesickness.

“What can I do to make you lesss sscared of me?”

Boldwood signed.

“You’re already doing plenty. I can’t think of anything else you could do. I’m repeating myself, but I just need time.”

“You’re ssure? You don’t have to coddle me to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. Well, I suppose I am, but I am intrigued. By you, I mean. If everything you’ve said and done is genuine, and I have no reason to doubt it if I’m being fair, you are very kind.”

Crowley snorted. 

“I’m not kind. Demonss aren’t kind.”

“So it has all been self-serving, then?”

“No. Oh, I see what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m merely trying to establish what things are and what they’re not before I go mad. You’re a demon. I’m a murderer. Neither of us is in God’s good books. Unless you’re manipulating me for some unknown end, you are, indeed, being very kind to me and I am grateful. Even if I am being deceived, this is the most fantastic, exciting experience I’ve ever had. I think it’d be worth it. Although I might change my mind if I end up in hell.”

“Which wouldn’t be my fault.”

A laugh burst out of Boldwood’s mouth. 

“Every story I have ever heard where a demon claims to help a man, the man is condemned to hell. How can I be anything but perplexed by this?”

“And in plenty of other taless, the man condemnss and murdersss the demon. Or tries to. We just end back in hell. Unlesss—”

Crowley snapped his mouth shut. Fuck, he’d almost told Boldwood that he could kill him with holy water.

“Unless what?”

“Nothing. You’re not getting the sssecrets of true exorcissm from me. I don’t trusst you that much.”

“You say that as if I were as much of a threat to you as you are to me.”

“You are. You have no idea.”

It was simple enough to figure out. Nicola had. Boldwood could simply walk into a church, scoop up some holy water, and throw it in Crowley’s face. And now he’d gotten the wheels in Boldwood’s head turning. Boldwood was frowning pensively, no doubt trying to figure out what mysterious tactic he could use to injure Crowley in self-defense. With a massive sigh, Crowley dropped his head.

“Would it help you to trusst me if I told you how you can harm me?” he asked.

Boldwood turned to him, startled.

“You would do that? You can’t possibly want to.”

“No, I don’t. Never mind.”

“I should warn you, though, I have my suspicions now.”

Oh, great.

“Well, isssn’t that just ssswell. Ssso, too late now, isss it?”

“Only if I’m right.”

Boldwood showed a remarkable amount of backbone regarding him with such confident intensity in his eyes. 

Oh, Crowley was doomed. 

“Lassst time I told a human what I am, he tried to kill me.”

Was it possible that the appalled expression in Boldwood’s face was genuine?

“And yet you were willing to tell me?”

“Only for a ssecond. In the interesst of fair play, but you’re a human. I’m a demon. Nothing’ss fair there.”

“You could kill me with the snap of your fingers, couldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t need to ssnap them. But I don’t like killing people. Not directly.”

“So you have killed people indirectly.”

Crowley grimaced.

“I am a demon. What can I tell you?”

“I have killed someone. Directly.”

Crowley snorted, a lazy grin coming over his face.

“And you don’t repent.”

“I have no desire to kill you.”

“Desssire often has nothing to do with it.”

“It does for me. Especially for something like this. I don’t want to kill you or hurt you. I would only do so in self-defense.”

“I won’t hurt you. I promisse. I’m not lying.”

The silent question “How can I know that to be true?” burned in Boldwood’s eyes. 

Crowley sucked air deep into his lungs. His wings shivered, fingers jerking in terror in his lap. 

“Holy water.”

The words barely made it out his mouth before his voice shrank and died in his throat. His wings jerked, longing to stretch and carry him far away, but that would scare Boldwood even more, so he flattened them against his back, clenching his hands. His body tensed, on his guard, muscles sore. From the corner of his eye, Boldwood stared at him in shock, his mouth wide, gaping.

“Why did you tell me this?” he asked, amazed.

Crowley’s wings flapped again.

“Do you trussst me now?”

Boldwood’s reply came sooner than Crowley expected.

“Yes.”

Slowly, Crowley turned his head, taking in the amazed certainty in Boldwood’s face. Nervousness remained there still, but there was no more fear, only wonder and a desperate need to understand.

“Why?” Boldwood insisted. “Because I look like him?”

“Becausse I like you. I like _you_.”

Crowley silently begged him to understand that just because his fascination with him had begun out of the aching hole that Aziraphale had left in his heart, that didn’t mean that Aziraphale was all that he saw when he looked at Boldwood. He might be confused sometimes and reacted at hair triggers like he had done just now, but he was perfectly capable of seeing Boldwood as a separate, independent person. A lovely, clever, lonely man who stuck to his principles and begged to be loved so much that he had taken a chance on a forlorn demon who truly did want to help. Just because Crowley was a monster didn’t mean that he couldn’t aspire to what he had once been, if only for a moment. 

Eyes softening with hopeful acceptance, Boldwood nodded. 

“I believe you,” he said.

The knot that had been yanking noose tight in Crowley’s chest broke free.


	5. Chapter 5

Boldwood ate his breakfast with hearty relish, all signs of his previous fear of Crowley almost gone. There were hints still in his wide-eyed amazement, but he was no longer peering at Crowley as if he were dynamite that might go off at any moment. Crowley settled him in his study again (he really needed to get a dining table) and shared a cup of tea with him. It would have been easy enough to flee like he had done yesterday to calm himself down, but now that he had told Boldwood how he could dispatch him with impunity, he wanted to keep a closer eye on him. Not that he thought that Boldwood really might kill him. He never would have told him if that was the case. But… Well… It was still early days. 

“This is delicious,” Boldwood said after taking a sip of his tea. “This might be the best tea I’ve ever had.”

Compliments could mean anything, but Boldwood’s pleased admiration was completely genuine. Boldwood wasn’t that good of a liar. Besides, Crowley did make amazing tea.

“Thank you,” Crowley said. “I had to learn to make the best for Aziraphale to let me make the tea. He’s got what he calls a refined palate. I call it being picky.”

Curiosity gleamed in Boldwood’s eyes the way it always did when Aziraphale came up.

“He’s a bit of a gourmand, is he?”

“Not a bit. A lot. Look up gourmand in the dictionary and you’ll find a big picture of him at the entry.”

“I’ve never been terribly choosy about food myself,” Boldwood said pensively. “Well, I do have my preferences, but no one would characterize me as a gourmand.”

“Because you’re not like Aziraphale. Which is good. I like that. It was too confusing before I knew anything about you. But it’s better now. I’m really not hearing him when you talk, I’m not. Not most of the time.”

Crowley buried his face in his cup, glugging half the tea in one go. Boldwood smiled gently. 

“I understand.”

He put the final piece of sausage in his mouth and sat back, picking up his tea cup. He grew serious as he took a long sip, as if he were fortifying himself for a hard task.

“Do you know what’s happened back in Weatherbury since yesterday?” he asked, voice wavering a bit.

Oh, right. Crowley hadn’t been looking forward to this bit. Even though his plan worked, it wouldn’t make Boldwood’s emotional repercussions any easier. Standing up, Crowley grabbed the Weatherbury newspapers he had miracled earlier from a drawer and handed them to Boldwood, who took them with a nervous air.

“It worked,” Crowley said. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

One of the newspapers reported the story in neutral terms, while the other one framed Boldwood’s supposed death as both fair comeuppance and a travesty of justice that he got such a lucky reprieve from facing the Queen’s justice. 

“Everyone thinks I’m dead,” Boldwood said, his voice stony and somber.

“It wouldn’t be safe for anyone to know.”

Boldwood nodded tightly.

“I know. Still, I… I do hope that my friends, that Mrs. Troy, aren’t in too much anguish over it. I’d never want to hurt them. Yet, is it terribly selfish of me that I can’t hope that wholeheartedly?”

“Not at all. Of course they will mourn you. You were always well spoken of when I asked about you. Well, not from the young ladies you didn’t pay any attention to, but there are always sour grapes in the bunch.”

Crowley’s attempt to lighten the mood worked, for a laugh huffed out of Boldwood’s mouth, even if it was marred by the wet sound of incoming tears. He blinked rapidly, striving to hold them back as he clutched the newspaper for support. Crowley sat across from him and leaned on the table. He had almost pulled the chair over next to him, but would that be too much? Boldwood had just sat next to him on the staircase, which was far less proper, so why would this be too much? But it wouldn’t do to mess things up again.

“It’s alright to cry, you know?” Crowley said, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down. “If you want.”

Boldwood shook his head, even as his face scrunched with grief.

“I’m alright, really. I just need a moment.”

“You don’t need to cling to social decorum with me, especially not after the scene I just made.”

Boldwood rubbed his eyes, squeezing them shut. A painful sounding sigh pushed out of his mouth and a tear slipped down his cheek.

“I can leave you alone if you want,” Crowley said, straightening to get up.

“No. Please. I don’t want to be alone. Not just when I’ve lost everyone else.”

A desperate sound escaped his mouth and he fell forward, elbows on the table, face in his hands. Sympathy burned in Crowley’s stomach.

“God,” Boldwood moaned. “You really are the only person I have left.”

Crowley shrank back, suddenly feeling unbearably awkward.

“I know if you’d had the choice it wouldn’t have been me.”

Who would want a demon to be their only friend? Aziraphale, maybe. He’d had plenty of human friends, but Crowley was the only one who wouldn’t die on him. His fellow angels didn’t like him, wankers that they were. That wasn’t the only reason why Aziraphale was friends with Crowley. Of course not. They had been drawn to each other since Eden. Even when they spent centuries apart, they always went back to each other. This latest fight was temporary. Aziraphale was always so glad to see him. His whole being lit up with the glow of his angelic being, a warm, pulsating beacon to a safe harbor. He probably wasn’t aware that he was doing it. Crowley yearned for it like a fish craved water, but Aziraphale might not be so happy to see him this time. Crowley might have pushed too far, leading him to believe that being friends with a demon wasn’t worth the frustration. As much as Crowley sought to believe that Aziraphale wouldn’t desert him when Armageddon came knocking, how certain could he be of that, really? 

“I made that choice,” Boldwood said, “when I left prison with you. Not that I would have lasted long had I stayed, but that’s not the point.”

Crowley picked at the edge of the desk, sticking his nails into the creases in the wood.

“Still, it wasn’t a fair choice.”

Boldwood didn’t argue. How could he, really? He raised his face, which was now streaked with tears, and brushed them off with the palms of his hands, sniffing. He kept leaning on the desk, hands clasped before him, looking off at the window behind Crowley.

“I had a Christmas party,” he said with a watery smile. “I invited the whole village. I was afraid they wouldn’t want to come. I’d kept myself apart from most society for so long, but I wanted to change that. I saw a chance to turn my whole life around. Get married. Get settled. Be friendlier. Not so lonely.”

He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes shut. 

“It’s so strange to be so open with you about this. Not even with my friends have I revealed such personal concerns so easily.”

“Reveal all you want. Or nothing at all if you don’t. Whatever you want to tell me or not tell me is fine. And please don’t get hung up with these stupid social rules about what’s proper or not proper. Most of the time that I’ve spent on this island, men were open with their feelings. Maybe not to random people on the street, but this strict, keep all your feelings locked up inside thing is really recent. For me, anyway. I can’t wait for it to go away. It probably won’t happen in your lifetime, though.”

That drew another smile from Boldwood, one tinged with wonder as well as embarrassment.

“I forget I’m speaking to someone who has seen the whole progress of humanity.”

“Not all of it, just the places where I’ve been.”

“Still, that’s much more than I can possibly imagine. If that’s what you’re used to, my manners must seem rather silly to you.”

Crowley tapped the table awkwardly.

“Well… Maybe a bit. Eating has gotten much too complicated. We used to do just fine with a spoon and a knife, now you lot have a dozen utensils just to get through one meal. No one needs that much cutlery.”

Boldwood huffed a small laugh through his nose. He was crying still, but he looked a tad less miserable. 

“I certainly thought so as a child during my lessons,” he said. “I feel like I should apologize for putting you through that.”

Crowley waved his concern away.

“You can make it up to me at your new house.” Crowley suddenly straightened in his chair. “That is… I didn’t mean to invite myself. You don’t have to see me again after this is over.”

Alarm widened Boldwood’s eyes.

“Of course I’ll invite you over,” he said swiftly. “Like I said, you’re the only person I have left. I know I’ve done a horrible job of showing my gratitude and I was very unfair to you earlier, but I am determined to put that behind us. I would be honored for you to have dinner with me at my future abode, wherever that may be. I mean that honestly.”

Did he? Everything in Boldwood’s face and voice did seem earnest. Crowley had already decided to trust him by being monumentally stupid enough to reveal his mortal weapon, so he had already relinquished his choice. He had to trust Boldwood, just like Boldwood had to trust him. And Crowley wanted to trust him, so he would continue to do so, even if Boldwood was only clinging to him out of desperation. 

“Dinner it is, then,” Crowley said, smiling as if all were right with the world. “But for that, we need to get you settled somewhere first. You’re finished, right?”

Crowley gestured at the breakfast plate.

“Yes,” Boldwood said. 

With a click of Crowley’s fingers, all traces of the meal, except for the tea cup, vanished. Boldwood jumped. Shit.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, grimacing. “I did that without thinking.”

“It’s alright,” Boldwood said much too quickly, settling back in his chair. “I’m not scared. On the contrary, I’m amazed. But, perhaps a little warning next time?”

“Of course. I should have thought of that.”

It was so obvious. Boldwood wasn’t going to get used to Crowley magicking things willy nilly from one day to the next, if ever. Kicking himself, Crowley went to fetch the maps and list he had made from atop the cabinet. When he returned to the desk, Boldwood was still peering at the empty space where the breakfast tray had been, brow furrowed in an attempt to divine how it was possible.

“Did they,” Boldwood asked, “go anywhere or have they ceased to exist?”

“They’re in the kitchen. I could destroy them that easily, but the restaurant that delivered it wouldn’t like that. Here you go.” Crowley set the documents down in front of him. “Here’s every potential estate I could find last night. Everything is in Britain. Some of them are even in England, although leaving it altogether might be best.”

“Are you suggesting that I adopt a Scottish accent and move to the Hebrides?”

Crowley looked at his list. 

“I don’t think I put anything in the Hebrides.”

“In any case, I fear I would offend the locals. You did all this last night? Did you sleep at all? Do you sleep?”

“Yes, no, and yes, but I don’t need to, not the way you do. I like it, though. It’s relaxing. I can sleep for years. Decades, even.”

Boldwood peered at him in wonderment. 

“Decades,” he breathed, awed. “Astonishing.”

There was that open, giddy wonder Boldwood had shown yesterday replacing the most recent fear. A grin bloomed on Crowley’s face, small and shy. A weird, fuzzy feeling lit up in his stomach. Was he happy? Yes. Glad. Relieved. Just a half hour ago, he had crumbled in despair at Boldwood’s terror of him. Could that truly be gone now so quickly? Probably not, but it was a step in the right direction. 

“This is an incredible list,” Boldwood said, turning to the papers. “I expected you to insist that I take the first, secluded spot you came across.”

“Where you’d be miserable? Of course not.”

A pleased smile graced Boldwood’s face. Did he look touched? Nah, Crowley was probably imagining things. 

Boldwood took his time perusing the list, surprisingly calm about it. He even looked excited, yet every once in a while his eyes would stray to the newspapers shoved to the corner of the table and a shadow would cross his face. Crowley tried to distract him with random anecdotes about the regions Boldwood was considering, if Crowley had been to them before. Boldwood gratefully followed his lead, asking questions with a seemingly inexhaustible font of amazement. Slowly, they made a smaller list of properties to visit, most of them in Scotland and the north of England. They needed to get the lay of the land first before settling Boldwood anywhere. This would be so much easier if Boldwood would move off the island, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to ask Boldwood to consider it, not after the desperate way that he had reacted earlier. And how could Crowley fault him? He wouldn’t have chosen to leave his home if he’d had the option to stay and not be chucked out into a scorching abyss. Not that moving to another country was comparable to an abyss, but Boldwood would be just as homesick. He’d be homesick anyway, but at least he’d live upon the same earth under the same sky, breaking the same British air that he’d known his whole life. It was a much more circumscribed banishment, one that he would hopefully grow to be happy in. 

Several details needed to be taken care of. New clothes, more food, essential personal items, and accessories. Crowley miracled most of them, transferring them from other locations when he could, which was better than fabricating them from scratch. Boldwood accused him of stealing (in an uncertain, “don’t push the demon too hard” tone). Crowley grinned wide. 

“Just doing my job in inconveniencing the human race,” he said.

Perhaps it was a tad too cavalier of him at this early juncture to mention his hellish duty, but Boldwood didn’t seem too put out by it. Not that Crowley could be sure, but there was nothing he could do about that except for working himself into a pile of anxiety in silence. So clothes were woven, train tickets were bought, and endless cups of tea were made. They would leave tomorrow for Yorkshire. Sellers were being contacted about their visit via miraculous post that very day. But there was one more order of business that needed to be completed before they went anywhere. 

“Have you given any thought to your new name?” Crowley asked as Boldwood tried on his new collection of hats in front of a full length mirror. Crowley may have gone a bit overboard. Boldwood didn’t need ten hats right now, but once Crowley started making clothes, it was hard to stop. Crowley sat on an armchair beside him, idly working on new outfit ideas in the back of his mind.

“Some,” Boldwood said, putting on a wool cap. “I’m not sure if it would be wise to keep my first name. William is popular enough, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. It would be better to change it, though.”

Disappointment sagged Boldwood’s face. Oh, no, not that forlorn face. Crowley could never resist that face.

“Although.” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “I guess it wouldn’t be terrible.”

“No, you’re right. Best not risk it. How about Thomas? Or Wesley? I’ve always liked those.”

Crowley sat forward, rubbing his hands as he leaned his arms on his knees.

“Those are fine. You could have William as a middle name if you really want to keep it.”

Boldwood fidgeted with his hat before taking it off his head and picking up a top hat.

“That’s alright. I’ll get used to it. It’s not like many people called me William, anyway.”

“But close friends did.”

Boldwood’s fingers flexed at his side. He gazed at himself in the mirror, misery in his eyes.

“Yes. But I won’t be seeing them again. So it really doesn’t matter. New life, new name.”

“I know how important names are. You don’t have to lose yours completely, you really don’t. You know what? Maybe I’m wrong about it being risky. Like you said, it’s a popular name. No one is going to be suspicious when they hear it. So you can keep it.”

Boldwood smiled gently. He turned the hat over in his hands, fingertips pressing into the firm felt as he stepped to the side to gaze out the window. The top floor overlooked Hyde Park, a pale, manufactured imitation of the nature he knew so well. He probably found it as sad and dissatisfying as Crowley did when the last spots of wild greenery around London were dug up and built over. As false as the name he was now obliged to take up.

“I’m still amazed,” Boldwood said, “by how kind you are being to me.”

Every time Boldwood called him “kind”, awkwardness crawled over Crowley’s skin like mosquitoes. If it were Aziraphale calling him that, he’d groan in protest, but he couldn’t do that with Boldwood without disturbing him, so he kept his mouth shut. 

“I’m just saying you can keep your name,” he said. “Don’t read anything into it. So, you’re keeping William, then? What about your last name?”

Boldwood glanced at him through the mirror, his brow furrowed in that curious way that filled Crowley with excited dread.

“I don’t have a preference, really,” he said. “I was thinking Hewitt.”

Crowley exhaled in relief and disappointment.

“That works,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll get started on your papers, then.”

He left the room quickly, legs itching to carry him away, but he wasn’t interested in analyzing why. Satan, he needed a nap. He had been amped up since he’d read Boldwood’s name in the papers, which was how long now? Three days. He definitely needed a nap. Maybe he could get one while Boldwood slept tonight, if he could manage to get his brain to shut up long enough to sleep, which wasn’t looking likely. Returning to his study, he got straight to fabricating every document he could think of, as well as miracling Boldwood’s new identity into the required governmental departments. Official documents, schooling, holiday trips, everything needed to be accounted for. 

A few minutes into it, the urge for a cuppa overtook him and he made for the kitchen. On his way, as he passed beneath Boldwood’s bedroom, a telltale sound made him stop. The sound was muffled, yet unmistakable. Harsh sobs wrenched from a miserable throat. Sympathy tightened Crowley’s chest. There was nothing he could do. It had been amazing that Boldwood had managed to hold it together for this long, if he hadn’t cried last night when he was alone. With a frustrated sigh, Crowley pushed on, leaving Boldwood to his private sorrow.

`````````````````

“Here you go,” Crowley said a couple of hours later as he handed Boldwood his new papers. He had found him in the gallery, admiring some of the artworks that Crowley had collected over the years. On occasion, he swapped them out for others he had in storage, and was rather glad he had done so with his other Leonardos last month. His role in the Falling of humankind wasn’t something he wished to get into at this fragile juncture. All evidence of Boldwood’s previous crying was gone, yet he still looked sorrowful, and quietly pensive as he admired an ancient Egyptian papyrus depicting the snake god Apophis. Boldwood turned toward Crowley when he came in, the tensing in his shoulders indicating that Crowley had startled him. Or perhaps he wasn’t ready for company yet. Crowley extended the papers to him.

“Thank you,” Boldwood said, receiving them with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, not until he read his name at the head of his new birth certificate. 

“William Hewitt,” Crowley said, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. “It has quite a different ring to William Boldwood.”

“It does.” Sighing, Boldwood looked through the papers. “I have to be a different person now, so why not?”

Crowley’s fingers rubbed at the inside of his pockets.

“Not completely different. You’re still you, just with a different identity.”

“One I would rather not have to resort to. At least I get to keep my first name. Thank you for talking me into it.”

“Sure. If you like it you should keep it.”

That curiosity appeared in Boldwood’s eyes again. Crowley probably shouldn’t think of his as “Boldwood” anymore. One moment of inattention, and he might slip up before the wrong person. Yet before he could ask what Boldwood wanted him to call him, Boldwood finally asked his question.

“Am I wrong in supposing that you’ve had to change your name? Anthony J. Crowley, at least, follows a naming convention that didn’t develop until recently in our history.”

A smile tugged at the right side of Crowley’s mouth. 

“Neither of those was my original name. I’ve changed it a couple of times, to Crowley almost two thousand years ago, and I added Anthony five hundred years ago, I think. The “J” only in the last century.”

A pause ensued before Boldwood realized that Crowley wasn’t going to volunteer his original name.

“I won’t ask what you were first called if you don’t wish to tell me,” he said.

Would it be so bad to tell him now? Probably not for Boldwood, but the subject was one that Crowley hadn’t discussed with a soul other than Aziraphale, and the last time that had come up had been millennia ago. To delve into that morass of anger and self-recrimination required more energy than either of them possessed at the moment. Neither of them needed Crowley to collapse into another embarrassed heap of mournful anxiety so soon after the last time.

“Not yet,” Crowley said. “Maybe later. Before I was Crowley, I was Crawley. I don’t mind telling you that one.”

“Crawley.”

The way that Boldwood massaged the old name brought a flurry of old memories flashing in Crowley’s mind, a litany of “Crawley”s emerging from Aziraphale’s mouth, ever more excited and annoyed as the years of their friendship grew. 

“A reference,” Boldwood said, “to your serpent nature, I take it?”

Crowley’s breath returned to him in a sharp gust of air, aching in his chest.

“Rather obvious, isn’t it?” he said, as casual as could be. “Looking back, I’m amazed I kept it for so long. It did feel comfortable then, though.”

“So you change names whenever you don’t feel comfortable with them. Is it because of your long life?”

“I don’t think so. Most of the demons and angels I know have the same names they started with.”

“Huh. I’d never considered wanting another name. That’s why not being William bothered me.”

“I figured. You are fine being Mr. Hewitt now, right?”

Boldwood’s lips squeezed with resignation.

“I’ll get used to it. I had no real preference, really. It works well enough. Mr. William Hewitt. I can live with that.”

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself into uneasy acceptance. 

“What do I call you, then?” Crowley asked. “First name? Last name?”

A more genuine smile tugged at Boldwood’s lips.

“I think at our level of familiarity, you calling me Mr. Hewitt feels a bit silly. Call me William, please.”

Crowley smiled back.

“Alright. William. And you can stop calling me ‘Sir’. I don’t even go by ‘Sir’ much these days. Anthony or Crowley works.”

“Do you have a preference?”

It varied from day to day, but not enough to matter.

“Not really. Use whichever one you like.”

Boldwood considered this for a moment. 

“I’m accustomed to using ‘Anthony’,” he said, “but I rather like Crowley.”

_It’s so nice to run across you here, Crowley._

_I’m not an idiot, Crowley._

Crowley mentally shook off Aziraphale. Boldwood—William wasn’t him. He just sounded like him. Why hadn’t Crowley insisted on ‘Anthony’? Aziraphale didn’t even know that name. It was safe. It really didn’t matter to Crowley one way or the other usually, but…

He’d be fine. He’d get used to it, just like he’d gotten used to William’s other similar mannerisms and that sweet, broad smile of his when he was happy that sent a pang of longing through Crowley’s heart. 

“Call me Crowley, then,” Crowley said, mentally kicking himself in the same instant. “Or switch them around if you want. It doesn’t matter.”

His attempt at hiding his sudden discomfort worked, for William smiled that smile again, as if Crowley granting him free rein with his names gave him immense pleasure. Maybe it did. Since humans had decided that two names minimum was the way to go, allowing someone the use of your forename held special significance. It was a mark of closeness, a friendly or familial intimacy. This was what had just occurred. 

Huh. That did feel nice.

“Alright,” William said. “Mr. Crowley among company, though. I’ll make a note of that. Did you only go by Sir to intimidate me, then?”

A slow grin grew on Crowley’s face. 

“Maybe.”

William smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley did lie down to sleep that night. He managed five hours before waking up with the bedsheets tangled around his legs and his mind running a mile a minute in anticipation and dread. 

Why dread? Because he hadn’t settled anyone into a new life before and he might fuck it up , leaving William miserable? Because just when he thought that he’d learned not to compare Bol—William to Aziraphale, a fresh connection punched him in the gut? Both?

Both. Yeah. That felt right. 

It was the 28th of December, too early for the new year. Unless Aziraphale returned before he intended to open his bookshop. Doubtlessly, he’d bring a new collection of books in tow and would need time to set them up in the stacks, only to not sell them later. Why have a bookshop if you don’t want to sell anything? He could keep his collection as a private library and set up a proper bookshop with new books and actually sell them, but what did Crowley know? It only made sense. 

Jumping to his feet, Crowley ripped off his pajamas, stuffed himself into the first set of clothes he saw, and snuck downstairs and out the door. It was a short walk to the bookshop. They had made sure of it when they both purchased their respective buildings. Aziraphale selected his first upon the site of a sacred spring that had spent years buried under brick and mud, and Crowley had picked his own shortly afterward. Not next door, to give them both a bit of space, but also close enough so that they could easily meet up if needed or wanted. It worked well. Or it had before their fight. Now Crowley avoided Soho except for those few moments of weakness when he had crept back along the familiar streets hoping for a glimpse of Aziraphale. Yet he was still too cowardly to make it all the way to his bookshop. What a dunce he had been. Not that this was all his fault. How could Aziraphale possibly think that Crowley would be so callous as to ask him to supply him with the means of his own destruction? Aziraphale should be the one apologizing to him.

Bless it all. That wasn’t right. Crowley had been the one who lost his temper. But an apology would have to wait even longer, for the same sign still hung on Aziraphale’s door. 

_See you in the new year!_

Crowley wouldn’t be in London in the new year. Who knew how long it would take to find William a place to live where he would be happy? For it wasn’t enough for him to be able to live the rest of his days without being caught and hanged for murder. When Crowley sprung him out of prison, he had taken responsibility for his emotional well-being, as well as his continued living status. He might be a demon, but he wasn’t obligated to make everyone miserable. William deserved happiness, bless it. As did Aziraphale, wherever he was. Maybe he was happier without Crowley around sweet talking him into temptation, worrying him with his continual rule-breaking, stressing him out by being a completely unsuitable choice of companion. The day was coming when Aziraphale would have to choose whether or not to fight in the army of angels in Armageddon. Crowley already knew that he himself couldn’t take part in the destruction of this world, but saying “fuck you” to the higher ups was as easy as breathing to him. Aziraphale wouldn’t find it so simple. Maybe this was it. Maybe they really were done. If Crowley stepped back and let him be, Aziraphale would find it easier to abandon him when the time came. 

He wouldn’t. Would he?

Aziraphale’s shop loomed above Crowley, a forbidding presence instead of the welcoming one it had been for 162 years before their fight. Crowley sighed. With one last look at the dark interior, he stepped away, back through the choking fog and the doleful ringing of the 5am church bells. 

`````````````

There were no dramatics that morning, from either Crowley or William. Their shared breakfast would pass for normal to anyone who looked at them. Just a typical meal at the dining table Crowley finally set up, even if it was only for one morning. They didn’t speak of Weatherbury, Mrs. Troy, or Aziraphale. They didn’t speak much at all, as a matter of fact. William’s bloodshot eyes denoted a lack of proper sleep, as did his weary, apprehensive expression. 

“What about money?” he asked halfway through, his brow knit with worry about the embarrassing subject. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to live off your charity for a bit. I will, of course, pay you back when I can.”

With a click of Crowley’s fingers, three towers of pennies, shillings, and guineas appeared on the table beside them.

“I can summon money whenever I want,” Crowley said. “I’ve already set you up a bank account. Like I said, you don’t owe me anything.”

William’s lips parted, a protest about to leap on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained, looking down at his plate with a helpless expression. 

“As long as I’m not a financial burden,” he said, seemingly at a loss as to what else to say.

“You’re not any kind of burden. You wanted to take care of Mrs. Troy. Would you have considered her a burden?”

“No, of course not.”

“There you go. Same thing.” 

Hang on.

“I mean”, Crowley said quickly. “Except for the romance bit. This isn’t like that.”

An odd expression came across William’s eyes before he smiled in agreement.

“Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t assume so.”

“Good.”

Why was Crowley tapping the table? _Stop it._

“We should review your new backstory on the train again,” Crowley said, moving on before they got mired in the mud of whatever Crowley had just stirred up. “Just in case.”

“Good idea,” William said, just as eager to get on with things. 

London made as miserable of an impression on the way to St Pancras station as it had from Waterloo Station. The pea fog had thickened from the pre-dawn hours and blanketed the city with an acrid odor and visibility so low that it took almost twice as long to get to the station by hansom as it usually did. Despite Crowley’s assurance that he was keeping the inside of the cab clear of the smoke, William pressed a handkerchief to his nose for the entire trip, frowning out of the windows in distaste. 

“Do you really enjoy living here?” he asked in disbelief. “It’s ghastly.”

Crowley shrugged. 

“It’s much better than hell. Although, parts of London have been resembling it for a while.”

William didn’t look remotely surprised by this. 

“That proves my case. God, I can’t wait to get back to the countryside. Get some fresh air.”

Crowley grimaced at the use of the invective. Taking the Almighty’s name in vain was a weird, double edged sword, both a sin (though only as a technicality) and annoying for demons to hear, although more in the sense of hearing the name of that abusive parent who kicked you out of the house when they decided they didn’t like you anymore. William’s brows rose in realization when he noticed Crowley’s reaction. 

“Apologies,” he said. “Should I not mention God around you?”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt me or anything. She’s just not the most pleasant being for me to think about.”

William’s brow knit in confusion.

“She?”

Crowley grinned. Oh, this would be fun. Unfortunately, it would have to wait. The cab was pulling up to the station.

“Later,” Crowley said, opening the door. 

Upon arriving at the first class carriage, they resumed their positions from two days ago, with William pressed close to the window as if being sequestered inside pained him. Now that Crowley thought of it, he had often spotted him close to windows lately. Of course. It was so obvious. William had been imprisoned for days, stuck in a sad box of filthy brick and stagnating air when his whole life had been open countryside and high ceilings. And Crowley had kept him cooped up inside his house. He had high ceilings, but not as high as William was used to, and certainly nowhere near as good as being out in the fresh air. But it was possible to get that in London, as they had just established. And William could have asked to go outside if he wanted to. Still, Crowley could have suggested an outing. 

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see any of London while you were here,” Crowley said, picking at the velvet cushion.

Why did William still look amazed that Crowley was being nice to him? It didn’t matter that William was trying not to give that impression. It was so obvious in that little glimmer of surprised joy in his eyes. Crowley had never been mean to him. A bit rude, sure, but William gave as much as he got. The blight of demonhood was just too deep of a stain to ever wash off. 

“That’s alright,” William said. “I’ve seen enough of it. Although, perhaps, when we return… If we return… I don’t know how long this search will take, but I don’t expect it will be wrapped up so quickly, so I suppose we will return. Then we could go out, if you wish. I do enjoy the museums.”

“The interior spaces away from the fetid air?”

William smiled.

“Yes.”

Crowley pretended to consider it.

“I don’t know if taking you back is such a good idea. You’ll probably spend the whole time complaining about the smell, the noise, the lack of bird song.”

William’s smile softened as his gaze drifted off toward the window, yet he didn’t seem to see the landscape. 

“There is a place or two I would like to visit.”

His voice was soft, just this side of a whisper, as if he were suggesting something improper. The hairs at Crowley’s nape rose. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop. It had to be.

“Where do you have in mind?” Crowley asked in a supreme effort of nonchalance. 

William raised his eyes, silent, then shook his head. His hands grasped each other in his lap. 

“Nowhere important. I’d rather return to the countryside, anyway.”

Crowley considered pushing the issue, but there was no point. With every moment, Aziraphale’s bookshop slipped further away from them, from him, along with the angel who resided there, wherever he was. William would ask again next time that they were in London, Crowley was sure of it. If there was any mercy in the world, Aziraphale would be back by then. Then again, that might be worse. Did he really want Aziraphale and William to meet? He couldn’t get a clear reading on how William felt about physically resembling an angel, even when William tried to explain it. Aziraphale would be delighted. He’d be all over William, asking questions, comparing their movements, granting him gifts and blessings. It’d be weird, though. For Crowley. Maybe not as much for them. Aziraphale and William in the same room, cracked mirror images of each other, their voices blending in the same cadence. 

A tinglydreadconfused feeling crinkled in Crowley’s stomach. He shook himself. 

“Are you alright?” William asked.

“Um hum,” Crowley mumbled. He slouched further in his seat. “Never better.”

Now when did anyone who was actually fine ever say that? William continued to gaze at him in concern, but he let it go, soon turning back toward the window. Silence fell between them as the train rattled on. Crowley closed his eyes as if napping, but it was only a pretense, for his mind was too restless to grant him the mercy of slumber. William, on the other hand, did drift off, his hands growing loose in his lap and his head lolling to the left side. His chest rose softly with breath too light to be a snore yet too sibilant to be wakefulness. How much sleep had he gotten last night? He hadn’t said. It was now Crowley’s turn to stare out the window and wonder if he could find William somewhere suitable in the country beyond. 

Sometime later, a low groan rose from William’s mouth. His face was wrinkled with a distressed frown. His lips parted, mumbling something unintelligible, but it didn’t sound too happy. He groaned again, his right hand jerking in his lap. Frowning, Crowley rose from his seat and sat next to him, pressing a hand to William’s forehead. His skin was warm, but not unduly so. It was just a nightmare. Concentrating, Crowley dispelled the evil thoughts and instilled him with a sense of calm and wellbeing. 

Quickly, William’s face smoothed out and his breath grew regular. Crowley lowered his hand. It had been a while since the last time he’d done that. Healing had been his original purpose, but he got precious little chance or incentive to do so these days. He wouldn’t say that he missed it, but… 

Yeah, he missed it. Covering blessings for Aziraphale had been fun. He didn’t dare do so now unless he really liked a person. It wasn’t worth the risk of getting found out if there was no need. This entire thing with William had to be strictly off the record. If Hell found out that he rescued a human from execution only to be nice to him, they’d dip him in boiling acid until his skin melted off. He would have to do temptations here and there to cover his tracks. Hopefully, an assignment wouldn’t come in while he was away with William. Would William be alright with that? Hearing that Crowley had to engage in hellish duty to doom humankind was different from knowing that he was actively doing it. 

Softly, not wishing to wake up William, Crowley returned to his seat and spread out his legs. With one last look at William’s calmly recumbent form, he lowered his hat over his eyes.

```````````````````

Crowley woke up William before they missed out on lunch at the dining car. William frowned up at him in displeasure, mumbling that he wasn’t hungry, but Crowley wouldn’t let him get away with not eating.

“Up you get,” he insisted, standing by the cabin door. “I won’t have you fainting on me from lack of food later on.”

Besides, it was weird to hear “I’m not hungry” in that voice. Aziraphale would never say that. He could eat for hours without interruption for the sheer joy of it, a bright, happy smile on his face, closing his eyes to better savor the flavors massaging his tongue, little moans of pleasure escaping his throat. 

Crowley slammed his knee on the door frame.

“Are you alright?” William asked.

Crowley rushed to open the door completely, his back to William. 

“Yeah. Fine.”

He scurried out the door, face burning with embarrassment. _Stop thinking about Aziraphale_ , he ordered himself. He and his ridiculously alluring love of food. Watching William eat wasn’t anywhere near as enjoyable, not anymore, which was great. Definitely a good sign. But bless, did he miss watching Aziraphale eat. 

Upon being seated in the dining car, they ordered tea and steaks. William looked dubious about being able to eat it all, but Crowley insisted again. William had eaten atrociously in prison. He needed food, and first class food was decent. Aziraphale liked it well enough.

There he went again, thinking about Aziraphale. He sighed.

“Do you have a Weatherbury paper in there?” William asked, looking at the stack of newspapers that Crowley had placed on the table.

He had miracled them while waiting for William to wake up, as reading material and to check up on any possible updates of the aftermath of their escape. There was an article in the _Weatherbury Examiner_ concerning William’s funeral. It would take place in three days. The article was vague about who exactly had secured the fake body for burial, whether his friends or his cousins, but Mrs. Troy would doubtlessly attend. Crowley plucked out the paper from the stack and handed it to William, pointing out the headline at the bottom of the front page. William’s face scrunched with bewildered anguish as he scanned the text.

“It’s so strange,” he murmured. “No one ever sees their burial notice in the paper. I’m not sure what I should be feeling right now.”

“What are you feeling?”

William looked at a helpless loss for words. 

“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Disturbed, certainly. I do wish… No, it’s best not to know who will attend.”

He put the paper down, his hands shaky, and stared blearily out the window, looking at nothing at all. At a loss of what to say, Crowley hoped that William didn’t think him rude for turning back to the newspapers, though he didn’t pay much attention to them, either. When lunch arrived, they ate in silence, Crowley actually enjoying his meal more than his companion, for once, for William ate mechanically, slowly cutting up his meat and raising it to his mouth, his chews sluggish and weary as he continued to gaze at the fields of sheep rushing past them. They wouldn’t arrive at Edinburgh until night. Hopefully William would have more appetite for dinner. Not needing to eat himself, it had taken Crowley a while to notice that when human appetite was out of sorts it was an indicator of something wrong, either physical or mental. He hadn’t sensed any bodily ailment when he’d soothed William earlier, and he was certainly in mental distress. He had been eating well until now, had even been desperate for food after getting out of prison. 

Maybe this symptom hadn’t hit until now, triggered by his return to the world, not as himself, but as William Hewitt, late of County Devon, a widower in search of new vistas to soothe his grief. There was no chance that William could pretend not to be out of sorts, so having him be in mourning seemed like the best cover story. Crowley had crafted him a whole wardrobe of mourning clothes, the first stage of which he wore now. Since people assumed that Crowley was always in mourning due to his ever-present black attire, they would pretend that they were brothers-in-law. The obsession for specific mourning accruements for those with the means to wear them had gotten old as soon as it began, but what could you do? The trend would die off eventually, but in the meantime, they had to put up with it. Crowley could put on a grim face, no problem. It was his resting face. He might not even need to explain his sunglasses. 

After finishing lunch, they returned to their cabin. Crowley miracled a table between them so they could play games to distract themselves. William began to brighten a bit after their second game of gin rummy. He even smiled while beating Crowley at a game of backgammon. After seven, they returned to the dining car. William didn’t complain about eating this time, admitting that he was hungry, but he still dragged out the meal as much as he could, completely devoid of enthusiasm. Crowley let him be. Nothing was going to mend this but time, and even then the wounds would never fully heal. Crowley knew this too well. 

At William’s insistence, they played some more games before pulling into the station in Edinburgh. Night had fallen hours before and they were both weary of being cooped up all day, so Crowley miracled them a reservation at the nearest luxury hotel. There was no reason why they couldn’t conduct their search in style. And William could use a little pampering after having to suffer a miserable, damp prison cell. They got two rooms, which was the necessary thing for this propriety nonsense. It did not make him nervous. William could come and go as he pleased, even sneak off in the middle of the night if he wished. This was fine. He was hardly about to run off on Crowley. Why would he? Sure, he had his own bank account now, with plenty of funds, a full wardrobe, the property list, all the essentials, but that didn’t mean anything. Like William had said, he had no one but Crowley right now, which was a depressing enough prospect, but better than being utterly alone. And he seemed to enjoy Crowley’s company. He hadn’t given the impression of being scared of him once since the day of Crowley’s embarrassing lapse, and he couldn’t have become a brilliant actor overnight. Therefore, it would be completely fine.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Crowley knocked on William’s door and received no answer. Panic screamed in his chest. 

Maybe William was still asleep. Crowley knocked again. 

Nothing. Making sure no one was looking, he flicked out his tongue, sniffing for good measure. William wasn’t inside the room. The only indications of his scent were faint, the merest traces left behind by a body’s recently vacated presence. Crowley tensed. 

Maybe William had gone for a walk. Being inside for so long was driving him round the bend. He probably just wanted a little fresh air before they’d have to cram themselves back into a train to go into the Highlands. That was all. Crowley turned to return to his room.

Perhaps he should check William’s room to make sure that his luggage was still there. Then he’d know for sure, and wouldn’t waste time hoping if William had abandoned him, after all. But if William hadn’t gone anywhere, he’d be put out by Crowley invading his private space and get the wrong idea. He should wait a little longer. Yeah, because that was easy to do. Just because he could live forever didn’t mean that he had the patience of a saint (and some of those saints weren’t patient at all). 

Footsteps on the staircase behind him made him jerk. He turned around. William stepped onto the landing, hat in his hands, shaking off raindrops onto the carpet. Relief swelled inside Crowley, so overwhelming that he was dizzy from the force of it.

“William,” he said, barely a whisper. 

He strove to keep his desperation from his voice, but there was little use. Even his demonic skills could only do so much. William smiled at him awkwardly, guilt clouding his eyes, his posture contracting in embarrassment. Crowley tensed again. Had William meant to leave but reconsidered?

“I’m sorry,” William said. “I should have alerted you before I left, but I didn’t want to wake you up if you were asleep. I went to the first mass.”

Chagrin grimaced in his face. Mass? That’s why he looked guilty?

“Well, I didn’t expect you to stop just because you’re associating with me.” 

Crowley kept his voice low to not be overheard. William’s face lightened, relieved. 

“I didn’t know how you would… Well.” He finished his room key out of his pocket. “Let’s go into my room so we don’t keep whispering.”

William’s luggage stood in his room, right where it was supposed to be. Crowley had worried over nothing. 

“I know there are appearances to keep up,” Crowley said, closing the door behind him. “But I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about going to church otherwise.”

He hadn’t nicked some holy water while he was there, had he? There were no unusual bulges in his pockets, but a bottle small enough could go undetected. Especially in that coat that William had just placed on the coat rack. 

“I wasn’t sure myself, either,” William said. “But this morning, I couldn’t sleep and, it being Sunday, I kept thinking about it. So I went downstairs and asked where the nearest church was and when they held mass. There is a Catholic church that has mass at dawn. I’ve never been to a Catholic church before.” 

A Catholic Church? Didn’t they have basins of holy water by the entrance?

“There are an awful lot of steps involved,” William said with amusement. “It was quite a novel experience. But since every denomination gets things wrong, I don’t see the point in picky about it anymore. I just needed to, I don’t know, get some perspective. Have some time to think in a religious environment. Just to clear my head.”

Crowley loitered by the entrance, pretending that he wasn’t analyzing every gesture William made for signs of betrayal even as grateful relief made him want to reach out and hug him.

“Did you?” he asked. 

William turned his hat over in his hands, tapping it as uncertainly as the expression on his face.

“I don’t know. Maybe going to a Church of England service would have been better, but I don’t think so.” 

He paused, pensive, looking out the window beside him. Always looking out the window as if seeking to escape. Was it really a holdover from prison or was it something else? 

“Would it be terribly improper for me to ask you about God?” William asked, turning back toward Crowley. 

Discomfort itched under Crowley’s skin, spiking his worry even further. He was amazed that William had kept from asking for this long, but why was he doing so now? Alright, so he had just come back from church. Sure. Yeah, that made sense. Did he have holy water or not? It wasn’t like Crowley could just ask. It was rude and horribly untrusting if William hadn’t taken any. But why would he take any? It would have been a lot easier to just run. Less risky, too, if Crowley put up a fight. 

William kept staring at him, plaintive and lost, like a sad puppy looking for its mother.

Bless it all to heaven. Was that the face of a person about to murder him in cold blood? Of course it wasn’t. Restraining a miserable groan, Crowley swallowed a sigh of discomfort and said,

“Not at all. I knew this was coming. What do you want to know? I warn you. I’m a demon, so obviously I’m not going to give a good report on her.”

William turned over his hat in his hands.

“I know. I will keep your bias in mind. But it’s not like there’s an angel I can ask, although you’d probably complain that they’re biased as well.”

“Of course they are. They’ve bought into the whole system.”

“Including Aziraphale?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. 

“Are you using this as an excuse to find out more about Aziraphale? Because I don’t mind telling you, you know.”

“No. That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You want to go to his shop, don’t you? That’s the place you implied that you wanted to see if you return to London.”

A “you caught me” expression lowered William’s eyes. He moved to the side, closer to the window, which faced south.

“I know it would be awkward for you,” he said cautiously.

Crowley suppressed the twitching in his legs.

“It’s fine. Aziraphale would probably love to meet you. He has a collection of Bibles, you know. You might like those. He especially likes the ones with errors in them. He’s the only angel who has read the Bible. Or demon, for that matter.”

William frowned, surprised.

“Really? I know humans wrote it, but it’s supposed to be divinely inspired. I take it it’s not, then?”

“Oh, no, some of it is. Some of it is really not. God did used to talk to humans sometimes back in the day. She might still do so. What do I know?”

A weary sign dragged from Crowley’s chest.

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be to you on this subject. God and I were never on speaking terms to begin with and she never gave a straight answer, even to the questions that didn’t make her angry.”

“You know more than I do. You were actually in God’s presence. That’s more than I could ever hope for. I think.”

A disturbed expression crossed William’s face, a look of such fear and dread that Crowley itched with the urge to rush to him and press a comforting hand on his shoulder. He restrained this urge, but only just. He did, however, step forward, regarding William with concern and sudden understanding. 

“Your afterlife is not set yet,” he said softly. 

William squeezed his eyes shut, sighing in despair before opening them again and dropping into the armchair next to the window, still clinging to the hat in his hands. 

“I don’t think fooling myself that my chances are great is helpful,” he said, staring blearily at the crimson carpet under their feet.

Crowley sat down on the corner of the bed closest to him and leaned forward.

“What brought this on?” he asked. “The sermon? Did they talk about hell and damnation?”

William shook his head.

“No. Although, I’m not sure if I should consider today’s reading a coincidence or not.” A smile jerked on his face as he looked up at Crowley. “It was the story of the good Samaritan.”

No.

“Oh, you’re putting me on.”

“I’m not. It really was. Amazing, isn’t it? I could be persuaded to think it a sign of some sort, but if God is no longer speaking to us, or anyone… Although, surely in a church there has to be some sort of divine presence.”

“Sure, they’re sacred and all that. I can’t set foot in one without agonizing pain. So God must be involved somehow. See, this is what I was saying. I don’t… I can’t tell you whether God was around at your mass today or any of the ones you’ve ever been to. We never know when she’s around or not. And there’s the complication of her supposedly being everywhere at once, but she can’t be paying attention all the time, or we wouldn’t be able to get away with the stuff that we do.”

And it would be bloody rude for her not to respond once in a while if she were, not that she would deign to do so to a disowned demon like him. That would mean forgiveness and we couldn’t have that. Once bad, always bad, no matter how much you begged and pleaded. No way back. 

“That good Samaritan reading can’t have been about me,” Crowley said, resentment thick and bitter on his tongue. “God would never ascribe anything good to me, much less care what the heaven I’m up to. She cast me out. There’s no coming back from that.”

“No chance of redemption?”

Fear clouded William’s eyes again. 

“For me, not for you. Humans are different. You get second chances. And thirds and fourths. You’re special. God must have been more chipper when she created you. I was only referring to demons. You can be forgiven. It’s alright. You’ll be alright.”

The tension in William’s shoulders loosened, though not as much as Crowley had hoped.

“The good Samaritan story does apply to you, though,” he said. “Even if it is a coincidence. I have often wondered if things I took as signs really were that, or if it was merely fanciful thinking. If you don’t know whether God is directly involved in masses or not, perhaps it was intentional.”

Crowley pushed himself off the bed, bitterness biting like bile in his mouth, and began pacing around the room. Why did William keep insisting on this? Crowley was a demon, for Satan’s sake. 

“It wasn’t. It can’t have been. God doesn’t care about me. She’s certainly not going to think anything good about me. I’m dirt under her metaphorical heel. I’m evil. Unforgivable. Damned. There is no chance that she would ever compare me to one of humanity’s favorite religious parables. None.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut with a groan. Not more apologies. That’s not what he wanted. 

“It is a coincidence, then,” William continued. “But it was significant for me to hear it. You have to see how there are parallels. You’re my traditional enemy, and yet you’re helping me when I’m most in need. Whether or not there was any divine meaning behind it, I enjoyed it. It comforted me. Not that I needed comforting, but… I’m doing a poor job at explaining it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Sighing deeply through his nose, Crowley turned around. William was regarding him with beseeching eyes, pleading with Crowley to not be upset by his need for a divine connection between their situation and the weird happenstance of the priest’s choice of sermon. Crowley shouldn’t be surprised. William didn’t attend church only out of obligation. He had been clear on that. Crowley had never given much thought to an individual human’s relationship with God. It was so alien to his experience, like trying to comprehend the language of eels. He’d certainly never spoken to a human about it. Leonardo had been rather unorthodox in his religious views. He’d asked about God, too, but he hadn’t been burdened by a murder on his conscience. 

“I’m not a Samaritan,” Crowley said, voice low. “Good or otherwise. I don’t go around helping humans on the regular.”

“The Samaritan may not have done that, either. Listen, I’ll drop the matter if you want. I just found it interesting, that’s all.”

That made Crowley feel even more like crap. It wasn’t any of his business what William found significance in, what made him feel better about his arrangement with a demon or his sinful status. Crowley sank back on the bed, his whole body sagging.

“Make whatever connections you want. I’m not going to stop you. I’m certainly not the authority on what God is up to. But I still think there’s no chance.”

A small, grateful smile curled William’s lips before his face turned serious again.

“Do you mind if I ask how you became a demon?”

Crowley braced himself. Why was he so jittery? It wasn’t like he’d done something so horrible, no matter what God said. Other demons did much worse, but not him, not really. It hadn’t been fair, not right. He hadn’t been that bad, had he?

“I asked the wrong questions, which was any question. I didn’t mean to fall. I really didn’t. Lucifer got it in his head to start a rebellion and he went around recruiting. Mind you, I didn’t know that’s what he was up to when he popped up one day with his friends and started questioning how heaven was run. It was just conversation, or so I thought. I had some free time, so I stuck around. Before I knew it, I had a flaming sword in my hand and angels were fighting each other. I didn’t kill anyone. I hardly made an effort, tried to switch sides halfway through, tried to explain that I hadn’t meant to sign up for anything, and certainly not that, but it was too late. Second guessing God’s plans had already been enough to doom me. That’s all it took to be a traitor. So out I went, into a pool of burning sulfur.”

Crowley shuddered at the memory of the acid scorching his spirit, his divine grace stripped from him, leaving him a hollow shell screaming as he was burned alive. The process of transitioning from being an angel to a demon was hardly instantaneous. To say that it hurt was like comparing a match to a bonfire. 

“That sounds horrible,” William said. “Are you alright? You look like before, on the stairs at your house.”

Shaking, curled up into himself, and struggling his utmost not to scream? Yeah, that was pretty much how he’d looked when William accused him of lying. At least he wasn’t hugging his legs against his chest and rocking back and forth, but it was a close thing. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley said in the most unconvincing voice ever. “I don’t like remembering it, that’s all.”

_It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t my fault._

The mattress covers began to rip under the grip of his hands.

“I apologize for asking,” William said, standing up.

He was considering approaching Crowley, or so it seemed from the corner of Crowley’s eyes, which were safely behind his sunglasses. Good thing he hadn’t taken them off, which was his usual habit with William so that he would grow comfortable with his eyes. But William didn’t move. Hardly proper, was it, sitting next to him on the bed? Stupid humans and their stupid rules. 

“I can’t imagine what you must have gone through,” William said. “I’m really sorry for asking. I didn’t imagine it would cause this reaction.”

It shouldn’t have. Two panic attacks mere days apart? What was wrong with him? The first time had been about Aziraphale, so alright, that was a sensitive subject, but this? He spoke about his fall all the time. Moaned about it. Ranted about it to his plants. Why was it screwing him up so much this time? Why did William have this effect on him? 

“It will pass,” Crowley said, “like it did last time.” 

Forcing his hands to come free of the mattress, he stood up, away from William and the blinding sun and rushed to the corner, to the shadows where he belonged. 

“Can any more questions wait until later, please?” he asked. 

He hated how wretched he sounded, how vulnerable he looked with his arms crossed over his chest, his back hunched, yearning to curl into a snake ball in the houseplant towering beside the door. 

“Of course,” William said. “You don’t have to answer anything else.”

“I’m not saying I’m not going to answer anything else, just not right now. And don’t apologize for asking something. I really… I shouldn’t…”

Why was it so hard to breathe? He didn’t even need to except to speak. 

“It’s been a while since I thought about getting kicked out of heaven, that’s all.”

Lie. He thought about it every blessed day. But he didn’t talk about it with someone, didn’t confess the most wrenching time in his life with a human who couldn’t possibly understand how God had been nurturing and distant at once, lovable and terrifying, an incomprehensible riddle of mysterious smiles and draconian laws. How could he possibly explain that in a way that William could comprehend? How? William wanted to hear of a kind God who was watching out for him, but how he arrived at that conclusion while in the company of one of the wretches that God had banished from her sight Crowley would never know. His God, formed by pieces of divine inspiration blended with a load of human invention and twisting out of context, had nothing in common with the being that Crowley knew. 

“I can’t tell you if God is taking a hand in your affairs,” Crowley said, uncurling himself a bit as he faced William. “I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

William looked crestfallen by this, but he soon rallied and stood straighter.

“I suppose,” he said, “God does want us to take some things on faith?”

Crowley dropped his head back, sighing. This faith thing again. He shouldn’t question God because he should have faith. He shouldn’t protest about the Great Flood drowning innocent people because he should have faith. He shouldn’t wonder if God would go through with Armageddon or not because he should have faith. Faith had never done him any good. What was the point of having it now?

It was a blessedly odd coincidence for the mass to be about the good Samaritan today. But it didn’t mean anything. That would make even less sense. Crowley reached out with his spirit, trying to feel some wisp of the divine, but the closest he got was William’s soul in his body. Nothing. Just like he expected. 

“I’m going to have to leave that to you,” Crowley said. “I’m out of practice.”


	8. Chapter 8

Wind blew in his face, brisk and cold, as William indulged his restless body in a second walk through the streets of Edinburgh. His usual dislike of large cities was tempered by his ability to perambulate around one at liberty with no need to fear the constables in his path. Never had he hoped to walk through any street again, lest it be to his doom. The rain had stopped, the clouds thinning just enough for the sun to peek through its wispy blanket like an angel’s halo. If angels had halos. That was another question for Crowley, when he dared inquire anything of him again. He had left him in his own hotel room, to which Crowley had retreated like an injured animal to lick his wounds in his lair, his insistence that he was fine a blatant lie. William’s mouth twisted with unease and guilt at leaving him there, but what else could he do if Crowley wanted to be left alone? 

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the free air. Though he wasn’t certain how free it truly was. His home was gone, as was his family name, his friends, his farm. Bathsheba. He had never been in an intimate enough position to call her by that name, as much as he had desired it, but he had succumbed to referring to her as such in the safety of his own mind. His escape from prison had been dearly bought. Death would have been worse though. William knew what would have awaited him. It might do so still, whatever Crowley said. The next few decades might be his only peaceful ones for the rest of his existence, and there was no guarantee of that, either. There never was in life, but he had at least had a notion for what to expect. Reasonable possibilities grounded firmly within this plane of existence and the false certainty that his companions were all human and not at all supernatural. 

A demon. He had invited a demon to dinner. Crowley could be lying about that not obligating William to him in any way. He could be lying about anything and everything. It might all be a very clever, exquisitely acted ploy for Crowley’s own amusement. Eternity must get boring, after all. But at a certain point, that fear stopped making sense, and he had reached it when Crowley cowered on the steps of his own home, eyes wide and frightened, and told him that holy water could kill him. Not only shove his spirit out of the body it currently occupied. Truly kill him. Destroy every bit of his essence. William had thought that holy water was the strongest possibility as he regretted not learning how exorcisms were done. But when would he have ever thought that such fanciful superstition would be relevant? In any case, Crowley had given him no incentive to doubt his word. All he had done so far was help him, without asking for so much as a thank you. In fact, he grew uncomfortable at being called kind and generous, as if he didn’t believe that such concepts could ever apply to him. Well, demons were certainly not supposed to be so, now were they? If Crowley was any kind of proper demon, he would have left him to rot in prison. Then William’s soul would have gone to hell quickly enough, if that was Crowley’s intention. It was his job, after all. Lucky William that he looked so like an angel as to gain this demon’s favor.

God, would anything ever make sense again? He had been awash in a torrent of astonishment and confusion for days. How could any of this be real? An angel bore his form? Truly? How? Why? It couldn’t really be a coincidence, could it? Crowley couldn’t know what God was planning. He had admitted to it himself. That she (she! God was a “she” as well as a “he”?) was fickle and unknowable and didn’t tell anyone what she was doing. Therefore, it was entirely possible that their resemblance was intentional. 

But to what end? And why would William have a part to play? He wasn’t anything special. He couldn’t even get anyone romantically interested in him. If this was some ploy on his… her part to test Crowley, what could it possibly be about? It made no sense. Nothing made any sense. If he couldn’t so much as develop a theory as to why these elaborate schemes were being concocted, then they likely weren’t schemes at all. Crowley was right. It was a coincidence. That and the homily at mass being about the good Samaritan. But it didn’t feel like a coincidence. And yet, it must be. 

Still, it had given him such comfort to hear it, to recognize the bizarre situation he found himself in, the inexplicable kindness from a demon who seemed as injured as any poor, human soul. He wasn’t a cackling sadist or a smirking tempter charming William under his sway. Apart from him acquiring details about William behind his back before he’d actually gotten to know him, he had done nothing untoward or manipulative. Certainly not since he asked about him in Weatherbury. He apologized for making William uncomfortable, even when he didn’t but thought he did, answered most of his questions even when they made him look bad, offered him money, food, and shelter. Even after William drove him to emotional panic, striking, albeit unknowingly, at the heart of his trauma, he recoiled at making William feel guilty about it. 

And he called himself evil. He could still be. Even evil men had the capacity to be incredibly tender at times. Yet he didn’t feel malicious at heart. A force of mischievous chaos, perhaps. Bringing down the entire, British railway system for a week two years ago really was quite naughty, but not evil. It was hardly murder. Yet William had no way of knowing whether Crowley had been honest about that or not. He wouldn’t repeat it again in Crowley’s presence, but Crowley had proved himself to be an admirable liar, even if it hadn’t been possible for him to tell the truth at the time. 

Yet William couldn’t bring himself to doubt him. He trusted him. He truly did. How couldn’t he after Crowley had been so generous to him, so open, so nakedly vulnerable? His face when William had found him in front of his hotel door had startled him. Crowley looked about to collapse with preoccupation and terror, his relief upon seeing William so palpable that William’s breath froze in his throat. He had feared that William had abandoned him. There was no need to ask. It was as clear as clean water. But he had not shown himself to be possessive or demanded that William always be in his company. He stuck to his word that William was allowed to leave whenever he wished. Of course, the money he had generously gifted William might suddenly vanish, but he didn’t think so. From that first night at dinner, Crowley had struck him as a lonely soul, a match for his own, both tarnished and heartbroken, desperate for friendly company. No human could have comforted William better in his grief than Crowley continued to do, always eager to give, never asking for anything for himself. He was a conundrum that William couldn’t unravel. 

Then he should stop doing so. Demons were clearly not so different from humans at their core. Other demons lived up to their reputations, according to Crowley, but there were plenty of humans who embodied the very nature of evil. Why should Crowley be judged more harshly than them, much less by William, who owed him his very life? No more second guessing. He wouldn’t hesitate to call anyone else who had treated him so kindly “friend”, so neither would he now. Crowley’s nature was irrelevant. 

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose and contrition, William turned around and made his way back to the hotel, but not before stopping before a shop window, his heart seizing at the sight of a blue, lady’s riding hat. He had bought Bathsheba one much like it as an engagement present. That had been much too bold on his part. Would she have ever said yes? He had filled a whole room with presents. It wasn’t like he didn’t have money to spare, and she would have looked so lovely in them. Not that she would have ever been under any obligation to use any of them, of course. What would she do with them now? Surely Gabriel must have found them while taking care of his estate and shown them to her. They could serve as their engagement gifts. How could William have ever been so selfish as to deny his friends’ happiness for the sake of his own? Circumstance had forced him to learn better in the end. 

Throat tight, William forced his gaze away from the hat and to another. A man’s top hat, well made and stylish, unlike the rather vulgar one that Crowley wore. Not that William would ever point that out. It did strike him as odd, though. Crowley could live like a king, yet he dressed like a high reaching middle-class man. Did he not care for fashion? Or perhaps, given his insecurities, he didn’t think he deserved better? He was low ranking. Aziraphale was the opposite from what Crowley said, always wearing the most luxurious fashions. Maybe that was an angelic trait, and demons rebelled against their past by eschewing ostentation. Then again, there were some rather gaudy pieces in Crowley’s house. Would Crowley be offended if William bought him this hat? Would it even be right for William to do so, given that he was using Crowley’s money? But Crowley had been very firm on the matter. The money was now William’s to do with as he pleased. And what he wished to do was to show Crowley how much he appreciated his generosity. A present was a simple, yet considerate gesture, wasn’t it? 

Decision made, he entered the shop. 

`````````````````````

There was no reply to William’s first knock on Crowley’s door. Crowley had said that he would remain in his room. Maybe he changed his mind. William knocked again.

“It’sss open,” came Crowley’s voice from inside.

It sounded muffled, as if he were speaking through something, and he was hissing again, which wasn’t a good sign. He hadn’t even been hissing when William left. Had his mood deteriorated further? Guilt curdling inside him, William opened the door and peered inside. The light of the brightening sky illuminated the suite, which was the same size as William’s. Closing the door behind him, William stepped inside. The sitting room was empty. Crowley must be in the bedroom, whose door was open. Upon entering, William was greeted by a strange sight, one of so many in the last, few days that the concept of impossibility seemed like a fanciful notion. The bed was undone, the covers thrown halfway down the bed, leaving only a sheet, which was crumbled over a small mound which swelled into the body of a man as William watched, breath caught in his throat. Crowley was shifting from snake form. That must be it. A frisson of excited apprehension shook William. Crowley hadn’t offered to show him and William hadn’t wanted to ask, but he wished he could see Crowley as a snake. Although it might be a bit too much to handle along with every other incredible thing he still hadn’t fully processed yet. Did he have wings? Was he following Lucifer’s example after the temptation in Eden or did multiple demons don snake form? 

Crowley emerged from the sheet, throwing it into his lap. His pristine suit was at odds with the rumpled bed, as was his hair, which was immaculately combed, a demonic miracle, as he would say. Yet his face and posture betrayed his somber state of mind. His face was drawn as he rubbed his eyes, blinking his irises back to their usual size, his back hunched forward.

“You’re not feeling better,” William said, heart sinking. 

“I’m fine.”

Had Crowley any idea how false he sounded?

“I just had a nap, is all,” Crowley continued, pushing himself off the bed and fixing the sheets with a click of his fingers. 

“I apologize for waking you,” William said. “I had planned on walking for longer, but my legs are sadly unused to the exercise now.”

Sadly, it was no lie. His legs had been aching for the past twenty minutes. They had hurt from inactivity in prison and now hurt again from the opposite. Hopefully, they would settle once he returned to some modicum of normalcy. 

“Sit down, then,” Crowley gesturing to the bed. 

William stared, startled.

“On your bed?” he asked, his voice small at the impropriety, as ridiculous as it was to feel so with this being.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I swear, humanity’s obsession with what’s suitable is going to drive me mad. Do you know for how long there was nowhere to sit but the bed or a cushion on the floor? No one thought anything of sitting wherever. It’s not even my bed. It’s the hotel’s bed.”

Looking at it from Crowley’s point of view, it was ridiculous for William to make such a fuss. It was just a bed. No romantic or sexual suggestions would arise from William sitting on it. It really must be so difficult for Crowley to manage these changing social mores. The least William could do was not make it even harder on him by being so stubbornly British about it. 

Sighing, Crowley passed his hand over his face, deflating as he hunched over, looking even more tired than before. 

“Let’s go into the sitting room,” he said, moving towards it.

He’d given up for the sake of William’s comfort. What evil being did that for someone? Swiftly, William rushed to the bed and sat down.

“It’s alright,” he said, setting the hat box beside him. “You’re right. It’s silly of me to stick to modern manners when you’ve experienced every social rule under the sun. Social niceties hardly apply in our situation, anyway.”

A surprised expression wrinkled Crowley’s brow. His serpent eyes, which had once struck such fear in William, regarded him with subtle relief. William had yet to grow wholly accustomed to his silted pupils, but he was no longer afraid at seeing them. Fascination arose within him now, yearning to examine the shades of color in Crowley’s eyes. They weren’t a uniform yellow. Tones of gold and amber shone in them in the right light, like the soothing hue of candlelight in a dark, cold evening. They complemented his red hair perfectly, which was also of a hue William had never seen before. Red hair was, in truth, orange hair, and while Crowley’s was still so, sometimes William could swear that it shone crimson. He always wore a hint of red in his outfit. Was it to match his hair or was it for another reason? Might it be a hint of his snake coloring? William hadn’t dared ask.

“You went shopping, I see.”

Crowley’s question snapped William out of his reverie.

“Yes,” he said, grabbing the hat box. “I was on my way back when I saw this in a shop window. I hope it’s not too forward of me, but I want to show my appreciation for your generosity with more than mere words.” There went Crowley grimacing again at the mention of him being generous. Why was he so hostile to being thought of as good? “I can return it if you don’t like it. I hope you do.”

Taking the hat out of the box, William stood up and handed it to Crowley, who gaped at it as if he had never seen a hat in his life. His speechless surprise was rather endearing. Even with the snake eyes, he didn’t look remotely demonic at the moment. 

“You got me a present,” he said, his voice small.

“I realize that in using the money you gave me it’s not as much of one as I would wish, but I like showing people that I appreciate them and I thought you would like it. It’s very good quality and I think I got your head measurement right.”

Still looking bowled over, Crowley placed the hat on his head.

“You did,” he said. “But you really didn’t need to get me anything. You don’t need to thank me.”

“I know, but I want to. And how can I not thank you? It would be very callous of me. Do you like it?”

“Uh, yes.” Taking off the hat, Crowley looked it over again. “It’s really nice. You really didn’t need to. I mean, thank you. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t,” William said quickly, smiling. “I’m happy you like it.”

Crowley rubbed the hat brim with his thumb, gazing pensively between it and William. His perplexed surprise was carrying on for a bit longer than William had expected. Had Crowley never received a present before? Surely Aziraphale must have given him some. 

“Have you eaten?” Crowley asked, looking out the window. He seemed to be trying to snap himself out of his daze. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

William’s smile turned awkward.

“You always buy me lunch. It’s your money.”

“No. That money is your money now. Nothing to do with me. I’m buying you lunch. There’s a nice, little restaurant near here that Aziraphale likes, so it must be good. Let’s go there. That is, if you want.”

There it was again. Crowley’s concern for William’s comfort. Crowley looked away, as if he didn’t care, while demonstrating just the opposite. Affection swelled in William’s chest and his throat tightened. He knew that it was only his looks and voice that had secured Crowley’s interest, but he did believe Crowley when he said that that wasn’t all that there was to it. That he really liked him, not just his appearance. He was a true friend.

“I do want to,” William said, a smile growing on his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Lunch was as delicious as promised, as was dinner, which they ate at a different restaurant, equally praised by the angel. Aziraphale truly had impeccable taste, not that he’d expect any differently from an angel. But his tastes didn’t fully match with William’s, for which Crowley was glad. There were differences enough between them that his worry that Crowley might confuse the two of them was appeased. Crowley’s reaction to William accusing him of lying was an anomaly so far. As much as it was inevitable for Crowley not to think of Aziraphale when he looked at William, it was a relief that he was distancing the two on his mind. It was funny how concerned William was about it now after being willing to let Crowley use him as a pseudo copy of Aziraphale when he had dined at his house. Still reeling from Bathsheba’s first rejection, he had been lonely and desperate enough. Crowley’s own rejection had smarted all the more for it, even as William was grateful to him for not being so low as to use him like that. William hadn’t thought about it for a long time. If the possibility arose again, he wasn’t sure that he’d take it. But Crowley wouldn’t offer, not if his respect for William was true. 

Why was William contemplating this now? Everything that had happened in the last week was too fresh, too raw, to consider something with such potentially devastating consequences. It was just a thought, one of the many popping up in his mind in the whirlwind of his fascinated confusion about Crowley. If he weren’t already damned, surely being with a demon guaranteed it. Perhaps that had been why Crowley had rejected him, despite his assurances that their close intimacy had no bearing on the matter. Either way, it was for the best. He didn’t really think that being with Crowley then would have helped him in the long term, not with such relationships being condemned by human law, although it was a relief to hear that it wasn’t by divine law. It really was as natural and normal as he’d always thought. But it wouldn’t benefit him now, either. Risking the only friendship he had would be immensely foolish, even if Crowley were interested in him in that fashion, and he had made it clear that he wasn’t. It was for the best. A relief, really. William’s heart was too injured to sustain yet another loss.

The next day, they set out for the west, then the north. The rugged landscape that greeted him, chilly and blanketed with thick, grey clouds, was as unfamiliar as it was beautiful. It contained some nice estates, grazing land, flocks in areas remote enough for him to not to have to worry about running into anyone he knew, but none of them felt right. The homesickness in his heart filled him with a melancholy so deep that he couldn’t admire his surroundings beyond the idle lens of a tourist. The thought of residing in any particular place for the rest of his life didn’t manage to take hold, out of sync with the pains that were still too fresh. But he needed to overcome this. Wessex was forbidden to him forever. There was no returning. He had to look forward. But it was so cold here, the accents so unfamiliar, and the further from the border they went, his own accent grew less pleasing to those he met. Crowley didn’t push him to accept any of the properties. He was most kind and patient, more than William deserved after all the trouble he was putting him through. He was being most ungrateful by being so fussy about this. He should just pick a property, on the basis of practical reasons if nothing else, and be done with it so that he could get out of Crowley’s hair. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t so simple. 

To not annoy Crowley further, he did refrain from asking about God, heaven, or hell. Best not at the moment. Crowley had been so upset the last time. William still felt guilty over it. Nor had he asked to see Crowley’s snake form, as much as he wished to. The request might be of no more consequence than asking Crowley about his eyes, or it might be as improper as asking to see him naked. What did he know about demonic etiquette, apart from the fact that they found human manners ridiculously changeable? He would not risk offending Crowley by acting entitled to that which he had no right to see. Although, Crowley had allowed him to witness his transformation from snake form to human form, even if only under the barrier of a bed sheet. He didn’t recoil at being a snake in William’s presence, not completely. Perhaps he just didn’t want to be seen. Maybe it wouldn’t be horrible to inquire about it. But he dared not risk it. 

Nor did he comment on the new year’s arrival meaning that Aziraphale could return to London at any moment. Yet another reason why William should choose a property quickly. The longer he dawdled, the more time Crowley spent fretting about seeing Aziraphale again. Could Crowley not fly to London and come back? Perhaps not, else he would have done so already. Or maybe he had done so at night without William being aware of it, in which case, Aziraphale had yet to come back, because Crowley’s anxious demeanor remained unchanged. Either way, both of them would feel better if they returned south, so that’s exactly what they did. Perusing the still northerly climes of Northumberland and Lincoln was the closest that Crowley would allow him to get to home. William’s former home. He should cease thinking of it that way. It only made his move hurt more. But how could he possibly help himself? How could Weatherbury ever not be home? 

At least the weather was less bracing down here, even if the landscape remained just as unfamiliar. The warmer climes of the south were lost to him, yet William found himself surprisingly comfortable, even with his boots sunken into snow. The clothes that Crowley had made for him made him feel at the ideal temperature no matter where he was. No chilled breeze cut through the fabric. Even the one that touched his skin didn’t sting as it should. Nor did he overheat upon wearing his coat for too long in a warm interior. His boots were always dry, his clothes impermeable to rain or frost, and his scarf and gloves were the softest he had ever felt. When William thanked Crowley for it, Crowley brushed it off like he always did, acting exasperated by William’s continual gratitude, but the way he dipped his head and hid his gaze to the side revealed that he was secretly pleased. 

His care for William’s comfort helped enormously when it came time to view the properties, even if it still wasn’t enough to drive away his melancholy at having to choose a new home. Yet chose he must, and soon, so he scrutinized the list of English properties with special care. The estate that most caught his eye was for sale due to debts, not a deficiency in the land or the sheep flock that came along with it. The surrounding hills were beautiful, if a tad windy, enough like Wessex to fool an outside eye, even if not William’s own. The local accent was a bit tricky to understand completely, but he’d master it soon enough. And the house was large and comfortable, yet not so grand as to be beyond his means to maintain. Crowley had granted him the same amount of funds as he’d had in his previous bank accounts, no more. The architectural style of the house was similar, which brought a pang of nostalgia to William’s throat, but it dispelled upon entering it, for the floor plan and décor was totally different. It needed some repairs. Its owners hadn’t been able to maintain it as well as they should have for the last few years. Water stains plagued the ceiling, there was some crumbling masonry, leaky pipes, and the kitchen needed to be completely modernized. The latter would be a bother, but it was doable. 

“Do you like it?” Crowley asked while William looked through the window in the sitting room. The overcast sky gave a gloomy feel to the cold day, all pale with grey and white above and below on the snow strewn lawn. But spring would come. That would brighten things up a bit. 

“I do,” William said, exhaling a slow, deep breath. His hands clasped and unclasped at his back. “I think this is the best I’ll find.”

A moment passed.

“It might grow on you in time,” Crowley said. “My new home did.”

William turned to Crowley, who glanced at him with a brief rising of his lips before turning away, looking as somber as before. Before William had the chance to reply, the estate agent spoke to them, and the realization that had flickered in William’s mind had to be subsumed under the practicalities of finally agreeing to purchase a property. And there was another matter that distracted William. The chipped masonry and water stains disappeared before his eyes. The carpets under his feet grew vibrant as he stepped on them, looking as good as new, and the dust motes that stirred in the light thinned as Crowley passed through them. There was no need for William to worry about repairs. Crowley had it all well in hand. Although he hoped that he would refrain from fixing the kitchen before he signed the papers. That would be difficult to explain to the agent. 

Crowley would have been a brilliant guardian angel if he had been given the chance. William had begun to think of him that way, for though he may be a demon now, he had begun his life as an angel. That was important. Even more so when you considered that Crowley hadn’t committed any great evil to be banished from heaven. William wouldn’t countenance that not being true. He trusted Crowley, willingly, and not only because his sanity would unravel if it turned out that he was fully dependent on a bracing, new world built on lies. Even if Crowley hadn’t told him the full truth, which was probable given his brief account, his despair and regret had been genuine, as was his generosity and good, albeit mischievous, nature. If it were possible for demons to bless people, William would have thought that Crowley had blessed him, for nothing in his body had ached since they left Edinburgh. His knees, which had ached regularly in the last few years, had been remarkably pain-free. And the soreness in his throat that had promised an incoming cold had disappeared moments after he mentioned it to Crowley. Even his sleep had improved, and it had been wretchedly poor even before his arrest. And then there was the warmth, calm and cozy, which Crowley projected, seemingly without noticing. But William noticed every time that he stood near. Perhaps it was his demonic fire coming through, but, like everything else William had experienced with Crowley, it didn’t feel remotely nefarious. Nor was it so sharp as to overheat or burn him. It was as comforting as the pleasant glow of a fire after coming in from a cold, dreary night. 

Crowley referring to Earth as his home only added to his appeal. Of course it was his home, if he spent as little time in hell as he claimed, and why wouldn’t he if he despised it? Wouldn’t an evil, proper demon like hell? Unless no one was meant to like it. The rebellious angels were sent to it as a punishment, after all. Yet how it must pale compared to heaven. And William had the audacity to complain about having to move away from Wessex. He was still in England. He wasn’t being cast out from the Grace of God. Well, perhaps not. His fate might be dire in the end, but not yet. In the meantime, he got a new house, new lands, and a friendship that fascinated and comforted him in equal measure. 

William didn’t get a chance to mention Crowley fixing the house until they returned to their hotel in the village, which was a tad smaller than Weatherbury, but possessed the invaluable advantage of William being completely unknown to it. They settled in a small lounge area beside the lobby, drinking tea brought over by the owner. Almost as soon as they sat down, Crowley buried his face in an evening paper. He tended to get antsy if he hadn’t read one for a while. 

“My reading the paper so much is why you’re here,” Crowley had protested when William commented on it.

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to censure Crowley for that. 

“I noticed you improving the house,” William said now, casually. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Crowley said without looking up.

William smiled in amusement. 

“There’s no use dissembling. I saw stains and cracks vanish.”

The paper crinkled as it lowered a fraction, Crowley’s bespectacled eyes peering above it. 

“Well, you can’t have wanted them there, surely.”

“Of course not. I appreciate the gesture. But you didn’t have to.”

Crowley shrugged it off with a flick of his wrist.

“It’s nothing. It’s not like it was hard or anything. As easy as you pouring milk in your tea. Do you not want me to do your kitchen, then?”

William hesitated. Which would be the proper answer?

“Well, since you mention it, I did wonder if you would. I would be most appreciative. Only if it really isn’t too much trouble.”

Crowley fixed him with an examining look that had once filled William with trepidation, but which he now knew to be well-meaning teasing. 

“No trouble at all,” he said before returning to his paper.

William allowed himself a small smile as he sipped his tea. It was amazing how comfortable he had grown in Crowley’s company. Not even three weeks had gone by since he had left Weatherbury, yet he was as relaxed and at ease with Crowley as he could be. Well, not completely so, obviously, but very close to it. He had no doubt that he would be soon. All trace of hesitation about his nature had evaporated, leaving only the usual, social anxieties. Instead, he was drawn to Crowley’s presence, comforted by his friendship. 

A sudden wave of sadness slapped him. Crowley would leave soon. The house was as good as purchased. Only the formality of signing the papers remained. He would likely stay to see William through the pains of decorating the house more to his liking, finishing off a full wardrobe, getting acquainted with his new community, but at any moment, once he had decided that William required no more handholding, he would leave. And William would be alone again. Gabriel would tell him to try to ingratiate himself with his new community. Make friends. William had always been so wretchedly bad at that. Most of his friends had been more acquaintances, really. Fellows in the local chamber of commerce. That sort of thing. And who could he be fully honest with except for Crowley? No one, that was who. He was forced to lie to every new person he met, give a false family name, a false backstory with a false wife whom he’d never espoused despite his dearest hopes. No one could know his sorrows, the life he had given up. Willingly or not, it didn’t hurt any less. He could never marry. How could he share his life with someone if he couldn’t, well, share it? Not to mention that the marriage wouldn’t be legal, strictly speaking. And the poor woman would unwittingly be living with a murderer. No. William couldn’t subject someone to that, nor himself. Once, he had given up hope of finding a pleasing companion, someone he could love, cherish and dote on. He must do so again. He didn’t deserve such a person, anyway. Unloved and unlovable, that’s what he was. A quiet life had ever been his lot. He should be used to it by now. 

`````````````````

 _No more Christmas parties_ , he thought two days later while standing in the great hall of his new house. He was meant to be assessing the furnishings to decide which ones he wanted to buy along with the house. The owner had sold many already, but some remained. Yet the instant that he had ambled into the cavernous room, he was struck by a mirage of his old hall, brimming with Christmas lights and cheer. And despair, but most people had missed that bit. He’d never had a Christmas party before. His parents did when he was young. William had disappointed the parish by not keeping up their tradition. But he simply wasn’t the type to entertain, to play the charming host. A fierce trade negotiation he could master without bating an eye, but social occasions made him tongue tied and uncertain. Singing at Bathsheba’s party had been alright, but singing he could do well, so that gave him confidence. She had given him confidence. As had Gabriel. He supposed the same could be said of Crowley, although it had been much less straightforward with him. And he would be gone soon, so William wouldn’t be able to lean on his as a crutch for much longer. 

Nor was it fair for him to do so. Crowley had his own life to lead. He had to get back to Aziraphale and his hellish assignments. They had been lucky that he hadn’t gotten any so far. Unless he had and was avoiding them. But wouldn’t that get him into trouble? No, William couldn’t ask about it. If there was anything that he needed to know, Crowley would tell him. 

He would come to visit though, wouldn’t he? He certainly seemed as attached to William as William was to him. Then again, if he reconciled with Aziraphale, his time would be better occupied. William had never been anyone’s first choice, after all. Why should that change now? Not that he wished to be Crowley’s first choice. That was preposterous. Crowley had spent only a sum total of three weeks with him, while he had known Aziraphale nearly since the beginning of time. And William still pinned for someone else, same as Crowley. In any case, this wasn’t a competition. Crowley had already given William far more than he deserved. William had no right to ask for any more. 

“Are you alright?”

Crowley’s voice made William jump. 

“Forgive me,” William said, turning around to find Crowley frowning at him in concern. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Then I should be the one apologizing, not you.”

Crowley’s nose scrunched with dislike at William’s excessive manners. William was used to his annoyance by now.

“Where did you go just now?” Crowley asked. “Your gaze was far away.”

William’s fingers fidgeted inside his pockets. He was usually better at disguising his anxious twitches, but Crowley’s disdain for stiff formality had loosened his composure a bit. 

“I remembered the Christmas party.” The words were heavy on William’s tongue. “I’m afraid I was a bit overwhelmed.”

“Oh.”

Crowley looked sorry to have asked.

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever host another one,” William said quickly, although he partly wished to have let the moment pass. 

“You could. Next year. This new lot might want to come.”

“Out of curiosity if nothing else?” William’s lips squeezed into a tight line. “They might be bored of me by then. I’m not the most social of people. I might not be able to ingratiate myself with them.”

“You could give it a shot. You never know. Just… I don’t know. I don’t know how socializing in small towns works. Not in this century, anyway.”

“It’s painstaking, overly chatty, and requires one to either answer or avoid many intrusive questions and nosy gossip. Like the sort you collected on me.”

“Oi, you already forgave me for that. No take backs.”

A smile, however tenuous, couldn’t help but grow on William’s face. Crowley always found ways of making him smile. How would he ever manage without him? 

“I’m not sure I want to host another Christmas party,” William said, serious again. “After the disaster that was the first one, the associations I have with it aren’t the most pleasant.”

“Ah. Right.”

Crowley lowered his head, looking at a loss. He truly was trying so hard to comfort William, but there was nothing for it. There was no telling if his life here would be a joy or a further series of disasters. He had never been much of an optimist, except for some occasional lapses, most of which hadn’t gone very well. At all. 

“Thank you for trying to cheer my spirits,” William said. “But I’m not sure anyone can. My mood is too disconsolate, no matter what I do.”

“Of course it is. It’s only been three weeks since… you know. I hate to tell you this, but you are going to feel wretched for a while. There’s no avoiding that. If you were an angel or a demon, I’d recommend you take a nice, year long nap, but you can’t do that.”

“Nor do I have that kind of time,” William said lightly, but his gut pinched painfully, his palms sweating.

“Good point. A shorter nap might help, though.”

It was brutally hard to keep his sudden unease from his face. 

“Much shorter,” he said, trying for a little joke.

“Yes. Are you happy with the bedframe upstairs? I already swapped out the mattress. The one they had there was awful. Old and lumpy. I took that out straightaway.”

Had Crowley taken care of Aziraphale like this? Or had there never been a need? Surely an angel could manage these things on his own, not that he would ever be in a similar position. 

“Thank you,” William said, smiling. “But I think I’d rather get on with things right now. You’ve already dedicated so much time to me. The sooner we finish, the sooner you can return to London.”

A shadow crossed Crowley’s face. His eyes pinched, hurt. Oh, no. That’s not what William had intended.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound like I’m pushing you away.”

“It’s fine.”

Crowley’s clipped tone stung, as did the way that he shrank back, leaning away from him as if he were suddenly infectious. 

“Any time you want me to leave, I’ll leave,” Crowley continued, looking down, fingers twisting rapidly at his sides, discomfort pinching his voice. “You just have to say. You know that.”

Had he never stopped thinking that William feared him?

“Crowley, I want no such thing. I want you to stay as long as you like. Of course I do. I consider you a dear friend. I was only thinking of your desire to check on Aziraphale, that’s all.”

Crowley’s head rose slightly towards him. He wore his sunglasses, so there was no way to be certain if he was really looking at him. 

“You better mean that,” he said, his tone more pleading than he likely meant to be.

William took a step forward, but only that, not wishing to spook him.

“I do. I’m really sorry for how I sounded. Please stay for as long as you like. I want you to. Truly. But I know you want to get back to London and I’ve been terrible for holding you up for so long with my indecision over the properties. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m fine. I don’t need to hurry back. Aziraphale probably won’t be there, anyway.”

When Crowley looked away this time, he was woebegone for an entirely different reason. Was it possible that he was avoiding seeing Aziraphale? Did he fear that Aziraphale wouldn’t wish to see him? 

“He will come back,” William said. “If he loves his shop as much as you say he does, he most certainly will. So even if he’s not back yet, he will one day, hopefully soon.”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

Crowley’s body was angled away from him again. He looked embarrassed, like he didn’t want William to see him after his recent outburst. William wished that he could see his eyes to better gauge his mood, but his feelings were irrelevant. Maybe he should retire to his room to give Crowley the privacy he obviously wanted. But what if he interpreted it wrongly again, thinking that William did want him to leave? 

“I’m not leaving yet, anyway,” Crowley said, pulling himself fully upright. “Unless you kick me out.”

“I will do no such thing. You will always be welcome here. I mean it.”

A small smile tugged at Crowley’s mouth.

“Well, that’s settled then. I’m not going anywhere until you have everything worked out. I haven’t gone through all this trouble for you to mope away your days in here like a fairy tale princess locked in a tower. We’re going to fix up this place and you will make friends here whether they like it or not.”

“I would much rather that they like being friends with me.”

“Right. Yeah, that sounds better.”

Crowley bounced around on his feet, pacing in little circles. He had done this a few times before, always so fascinatingly serpent-like. It had once felt predatory, but now it seemed playful and passionate. 

“We’ll find you some friends, don’t worry,” Crowley continued. “There must be someone interesting here.”


	10. Chapter 10

They hadn’t finished fixing up the house before his first visitors showed up. An older, gentry couple from the next estate over burning with curiosity over their new neighbor. William had never paid any new neighborly visits himself, as Bathsheba could attest, so he wasn’t familiar with any particular procedure, so he stuck to the usual. Thankfully, a quick miracle from Crowley made up for the kitchen staff not being sorted out yet, providing them with tea and pastries. Crowley, in the guise of William’s cousin, led most of the conversation, sensing William’s flustered demeanor over the surprise visit. The mourning backstory did prove beneficial, as it prevented the couple from asking any questions about his supposed marriage. That would have been much too bold. The usual, dull pleasantries were exchanged. The couple were friendly enough. The gentleman offered to introduce him to some of the local farmers and help him get acquainted with the local board of trade, which would be most helpful. Getting back to what he knew best would be invaluable to help him get on his feet. That’s what he needed. Nor throwing parties, which would only make him miserable. Although, he had been having fun at Christmas until…

Never mind. There was a whole year between now and next Christmas. By then he might be up for it. Who knew? The memory might have faded by then.

A sharp clenching in his stomach told him that it would not. 

Two days later, he haunted a church door for the first time since Edinburgh. The sudden urge for direct communion with God that had seized him then had withered into a silent fear that he was reluctant to broach with Crowley. He’d just reassured him that he had a second chance. That his afterlife wasn’t determined. All of which he had said so many times already. It provided William no mental ease. Wasn’t repentance a necessary step for salvation to occur? But what kind of repentance? One prescribed by the church? If so, which church? What constituted a virtuous enough life to ascend to God’s grace? Crowley had let slip once that Mozart was in hell. Mozart. Had he ever killed anyone? If he had, Crowley wasn’t telling. Of course, murder wasn’t the only way to be damned, but it was a pretty certain one, wasn’t it? Should William go to confession? Would that work? No, that was a terrible idea. There was no need for intermediaries. Crowley had said so. Besides, it didn’t count unless there was true contrition behind it. Words without thoughts never to heaven go, as Claudius said. While Crowley couldn’t tell him whether or not God could read minds, it should still not be possible to trick him. Her. Oh, he was swimming in a sea of confusion. 

Did he even regret it? What else could he have done? As Bathsheba’s husband, no one could gainsay how Troy treated her, not unless serious assault was committed, and not even every kind. Was it really conscionable for William to have waited until then to act? Troy had been dragging Bathsheba away against her will. Who knew what else he would have done to her? It certainly wouldn’t have been better for her if action was only taken after unspeakable horrors had occurred. Only a fool would think that there was no certainty over how Troy would have abused his position as husband. He already had, was actively doing so before William’s eyes after toying with her heart, abandoning her, letting her think that he was dead. Troy was in hell. William was sure of it. He had never wished hell on anyone, but it didn’t matter what he wished, anyway. Hell was real. Crowley had made no mention of purgatory, and there was no way that Troy was in heaven. 

And William had sent him there. Not on purpose. William had been removing a threat from Bathsheba’s life, that was all. Even if divorce were a simple option, which it wasn’t, the damage might have already been done. There had been no premeditation of eternal punishment on William’s part. None. That couldn’t be weighed against him when his sins were tallied up. Even if killing a man weren’t bad enough. But it had been in defense of an innocent. Crowley found no fault in it.

Crowley was a demon. Of course he didn’t disapprove of murder.

Although, he did disapprove of other murders. Early in their voyage, he had gone off on a rant after mentioning that he took credit for the Spanish Inquisition. It had been full of disgust over humanity’s bloodthirstiness and greed. He had had very sharp words about the British empire, as well. Crowley was most certainly not the kind of demon who relished death. And the laws had been different before. If this were a millennia earlier, in the time of wergilds, William would simply pay his fee and be done with it. No prison. No moral invectives against his person. No crisis of conscience. He would still be living at Weatherbury.

Although, there was no telling how Bathsheba would react in either century. Was she grateful for his action? She had kneeled over Troy’s body, hand clasped to her mouth in horrified shock. The human heart was inexplicably complicated. Perhaps he had done wrong. She wouldn’t have wanted him dead. But what chance at divorce would she have had, not to mention the stain that would give to her reputation? Not that having her suitor murder her husband would do her any good. Oh, he might have made a terrible mistake. But the likelihood of assault still held. It was still worse than whatever gossip Bathsheba was putting up with now. She was safe. That’s what mattered. Damned be the consequences that fell upon William. 

Which might be eternal. Was Crowley genuine in his insistence that William’s damnation wasn’t assured, or was he simply being kind? For that would be the kind thing to do. To give him hope. And Crowley was the most generous person that William had ever met. What an odd demon he was. William had been so lucky to meet him, if it even was luck. If William did go to hell, Crowley could visit him. If he still cared by then, that is. It wouldn’t be all bad.

Oh, what was he thinking, planning his future in hell in a church? God probably wasn’t listening, anyway. There were millions of people on Earth. It probably was a coincidence that William looked like an angel. If angels went around looking like humans, it was bound to happen. And there was nothing noteworthy about a murderer accompanying a demon, surely. Especially one who wasn’t rushing to his knees to beg God’s forgiveness. 

But shouldn’t he? Wasn’t he sick with guilt? Wasn’t that what was causing these shooting pains in his stomach? Unless it was the food. It could be the food. Yet he had no other symptoms. He would if it was the food. And what about his sweaty palms? And his disinclination to raise his eyes too high up to the altar or sing too loudly when he forced the songs out of his mouth? Only sheer will power kept him from sounding like a strangled cat. No one noticed his discomfort, did they? This was his first time participating in a communal activity in this town. He had to make a good impression. He had never cared before, but everything had turned on its head and he had been so lonely for so long and he might be wretchedly alone forever when Crowley left, but that man’s face wouldn’t leave him alone. He hadn’t felt like this in prison. He’d been afraid to die, yes, but he hadn’t regretted anything. He’d wanted it all to be over. To be done. To stop hurting. Why did it hurt so much? Why now? Why not during the last weeks? It had gone after Edinburgh. The numbness. The sleeplessness. Perhaps whatever aid Crowley had given him had worn off. Or he had truly believed that the sermon of the good Samaritan had been intentional. 

He did believe it still, didn’t he? If it was intentional, God was giving him a sign that there was hope, that he wasn’t damned. But if it wasn’t intentional, if it had only been an odd coincidence, the sort that convinces people that there’s a deeper meaning behind what they’re experiencing (and this was the more likely possibility), then he really was damned. Might be damned. He wouldn’t know until he died. When would that be? In a few years? Ten? Decades? Decades living with this fear eating him up, stealing his breath? 

God had drowned thousands in the Great Flood. But God had also issued the commandment “Though shall not kill.” God wasn’t required to follow her own rules, after all. But there had to be extenuating circumstances. And, if he understood correctly, he could just beg God’s forgiveness and be done with it. But what if it didn’t work? What if he wasn’t contrite enough? He still believed himself to have done the only conscionable thing. If only he could ask Aziraphale. An angel would know. But it wouldn’t be remotely right to ask Crowley for that, much less sneak back to London behind his back in the hopes that Aziraphale had returned. He would have to carry on wondering like every other person did, albeit with more concrete, terrifying certainties. 

He didn’t speak to anyone as he left the church. That had been his intention, as uncomfortable as it made him, but that small anxiety was a mere wisp of dust compared to his current mind-crushing dread. The pain in his stomach was sharper than ever, stabbing so deeply that he barely managed not to bend over in pain as he walked away, instantly regretting not having ridden his horse into the village. But the house was only a couple of miles away, the day was unseasonably warm, and he needed the exercise. Maybe the walk would clear his head. 

It did not. He arrived at the house… home… Oh, Christ, he couldn’t think of it that way yet… He arrived still feeling like a rag that had been pummeled into the mud by a horse’s hooves. The same argument he had made to himself at the church was running round his mind in insufferable circles. He put on a nonchalant face for the servant who took his coat, then slipped off to the first floor, brushing away offers of drink or food. The water jug in his room would sate his thirst, and he had neither appetite nor desire for food. Crowley didn’t emerge from his room, so he must be either asleep or somewhere else. Disappointment ached inside William, but he mustn’t be so selfish. He couldn’t continue dumping all his worries onto him, especially when they had been over this time and time again. Inside his bedroom, he poured himself a tall glass of water and downed most of it in one go, half wishing that it was brandy instead. 

Oh. Crowley was outside, strolling by the pond, the eastern edge of which was just visible through William’s window. Well, it was a nice day. Sunny. Not freezing. It would probably be the last nice one for ages. While Crowley claimed to prefer the gloom of thick storm clouds, William was sure that he was pretending for the sake of appearing suitably demonic, for as soon as the sun peeked through the clouds, he leaned towards it like… Well, like a snake searching for warmth. Did he eschew the sun’s heat in summer, then? Perhaps. 

Well, look at that. A full minute without thinking of Troy. That had been the longest stretch since he set out for church. 

Crowley had walked off past his vision. William instantly missed him. He shouldn’t bother Crowley. He might want to be alone. Or perhaps not. Being inside suddenly felt oppressive. He’d had an uneasy relationship with being surrounded by walls since prison. 

Head in his hands, he sank onto the bed, the luxurious, unnecessarily large bed that Crowley had fashioned for him. He had claimed that sleeping was better when you had all the space you wanted to stretch out, but it only made William feel more lonely seeing the massive, empty space around him. At least, if someone else lived in the house with him, someone other than the servants, that is, he might not feel so poorly about it. He hadn’t expected Bathsheba to share his bed in any sense. It had been most apparent that she wouldn’t. 

Maybe Crowley wouldn’t mind company. Even if he did, William could wander around and get acquainted with his new grounds. Anything to keep from being trapped in here.

William found him gazing across the pond to the pastures beyond, which were dotted with sheep eating their fill. He turned as William approached, inspecting him. William may not be able to see his eyes, but he could feel it. A chilly wind buffeted him, but William knew that he was no more uncomfortable in the cold than William in his Crowley-made clothes. William silently thanked him once more for his impossibly warm outfits. 

“How did it go?” Crowley asked. “Did you make any new acquaintances?”

William folded his hands behind his back to keep his shoulders from drooping. His stomach pinched, but the sharp pain had eased for now, always relived in Crowley’s presence. 

“I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I felt unwell, so I returned as soon as the service was over.”

“Unwell?” Crowley turned fully to face him now. He sniffed the air in William’s direction. “You smell guilty.”

William’s breath froze in his throat. 

“Guilty?” he stammered. “You can smell guilt?”

“Of course I can. It’s pouring out of you.”

William struggled not to turn tail and flee. Just a moment ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to be comforted by Crowley, yet now he yearned to hide away as shame burned though him.

“Well, I certainly don’t mean to smell guilty,” he said. “It’s nothing we haven’t discussed before, so I see no point in doing so again.”

“You’re thinking about Troy. You said you didn’t regret it.”

“I don’t. I’ve gone over the circumstances in my head numerous times and I don’t see what I should have done differently. This will pass. I just need time.”

“You were feeling better about it before. What happened? It was going to church, wasn’t it?”

William turned his head away, avoiding the concern in Crowley’s face. He yearned to hug himself, to curl up into a ball on the cold ground as if he were a child, but he would do no such thing. Any of the servants might see him through the window, and while Crowley didn’t care about propriety, they did. What would it do for his nascent image in the village if they saw that and gossiped about it? Besides, it would be most uncomfortable and unpleasant. He should have stayed inside. 

“Going to church didn’t help, no,” he said. “But it wasn’t anything the reverend said. It was just… I don’t know. It has been troubling me the last few days. I don’t know why. Why now. What’s changed. Listen, I don’t want to bother you with this again. There’s really nothing left to be said. I think I just need to go for a walk. Some fresh air will sort me out.”

“You just walked to the church and back.”

“And clearly it wasn’t enough.” William took a step back. “I’ll be alright. I just need to clear my head.”

Turning tail, William hurried away, cheeks burning with embarrassment. At least that could be interpreted as the cold air chilling his face. If it weren’t for Crowley knowing how warm his clothes made him, that is. That had been a disaster. When had he refused Crowley’s comfort before? He couldn’t recall. Yet now he couldn’t stand it. Talking about it. Being looked at. Having to explain why this sudden onset of moral compunction was happening just when things might finally be turning around for the better. It was madness. Utterly ridiculous. He didn’t even want to go on another walk. He wanted to curl up in bed, but now he had no choice, so he kept on shuffling around the house with no sense of direction. 

He stumbled across the formal garden, which was spread along the back of the house, it’s flower beds dry and it’s bushes leafless. What a sorry sight to be greeted by. Truly, no other season would better fit his mood. The days after Christmas were always bleak and desolate. God, even the days before were usually somber, too, this last year being a notable and now painful exception. If only the rest of the day would follow suit his miserable mood would be complete, but the sun shone merrily in a crystal, blue sky adorned with wispy clouds. It felt tortuously off-kilter. The sun should cheer William up a bit, but it did nothing of the sort. Troy’s shouting face, red with anger, William’s finger pulling the trigger of his rifle, Troy’s body falling to the ground as Bathsheba screamed, it all continued to haunt him, affording him no reprieve. 

His foot slipped. He yelled, arms reaching out, but there was nothing to grasp. A flutter of wings buffeted the air and someone grabbed him from behind before he could hit the grass. A massive, black wing stroked his right cheek before sliding away. He gasped, following the wing until it vanished behind Crowley’s back. 

“Mind where you’re stepping,” Crowley said, pushing him upright. “I didn’t go through all this trouble for you to break your neck taking a stroll.”

Crowley stepped back, letting William stand by himself a short distance from where he’d been walking. There, on the edge of the shrubbery, lied a patch of ice sheltered by the shade. 

“I didn’t see the ice,” William said. Of all the stupid things. “I was distracted.”

“I know you were distracted. That’s why I followed you. Good thing there are no cliffs around here. You might have strolled off one before you noticed.”

William looked up at him sharply. 

“I would never do anything so foolish.”

Crowley’s glare was palpable through his glasses.

“Really? Could have fooled me with that hangdog expression of yours, shame bursting out of you loud enough for any demon within ten miles to feel it. I would let you go on your merry way if it weren’t for the fact that you’re not talking to me. You’re never done that, not since I first urged you to open up. Why are you closing yourself off now?”

Crowley was worried. Scared, even. Did he actually think that William would… No, that had been a furious exaggeration to get a reaction from William. But he was deeply concerned. William was usually touched by this, but now it made his guilt even worse. 

“I don’t know,” he murmured, scanning the ground before he embarrassed himself further by slipping again. “I did seek you out, but I wanted a distraction, not to talk about this. There’s no point in going over the same thing when there’s nothing new you can tell me, and I really don’t want to talk about it. I will be fine, I promise.”

Crowley’s mouth pressed in a thin, displeased line.

“I believe you,” he said. “No one who says they’re fine while smelling like you is ever fine. Normally, I would leave you be. It’s not my business what you want or don’t want to talk about, but you’re made it my business. You came to me in the middle of some emotional crisis and apparently you’ve designated me as your guardian angel—”

William gasped. When had Crowley heard that?

“Yeah, I heard you talking to yourself,” Crowley continued. “May I remind you that I’m not an angel. That was a long time ago, longer than you can conceive of. Nor am I any kind of Samaritan, but fine. Think whatever you need to to make you happy. Which leaves me with an obligation.”

“You’re not obligated to me.”

“Of course I am. I’ve been responsible for you since I broke you out of prison. And that doesn’t end until you’re happily settled. That’s the deal. Well, we got you a house, a nice farm. You were supposed to get started on making friends today, but that went pear-shaped because of this, so clearly we need to fix this.”

“There’s no fixing it.” 

The words burst out of William, frustration unraveling inside him. He passed a hand over his face, fingers digging into his skin as he pulled away. 

“There’s no changing what I did or that it was necessary, and both of those things damn me.”

Crowley dropped his head back, as annoyed as William knew he would be.

“You’re not automatically damned. That’s not how it works.”

“I knew it would bother you if I mentioned it again. That’s why I didn’t. Yes, you’ve told me many times that there’s no telling where I will end up. I get it. I still think it’s pretty, damn obvious. Is doing good deeds for the rest of my life really going to make up for sending a man to hell for a crime he only might have committed?” 

“You don’t know that he’s in hell.”

“Are you seriously telling me that there’s any chance that he isn’t? Given what you know about him?”

Crowley grimaced awkwardly.

“Well, yeah probably. Though I can’t be a hundred percent sure without checking. But I’m not going down there if I can help it.”

Crowley probably thought that he did a good job of disguising the subtle tremor that gripped his shoulders whenever he mentioned visiting hell, but William could always detect it. 

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” William said. “There’s no need, anyway. You know as well as I do that that’s where he is. And I put him there.”

“You didn’t put him anywhere. He did that to himself by being a selfish wanker. You just… moved him along.”

A pained groan escaped William’s throat. 

“Moved him along? That’s one way of describing murder I’ve never heard before.”

“You were defending Bathsheba.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like you murdered him in his sleep.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have let him leave with her.”

“There was no other way to be rid of him. Now she can be happy with Gabriel.”

A miserable moan choked in William’s mouth. He turned away, avoiding Crowley’s gaze, for all the good that did him. 

“I know. I’ve said all of this to myself more times than I can count.”

“You’ve said it to me, too. So if you’re not regretting it, why is this hitting you so hard now?”

William almost sank to the ground then, his knees too weak to hold him any longer. 

“If I knew, I would have told you already, but I don’t. Perhaps I do regret it even though I don’t want to. Or feeling some measure of guilt for taking a man’s life is inevitable even if it was in defense of someone else. Or maybe I…”

He drifted off, looking helplessly around him at the sunny fields, the munching sheep, the stately house which should feel inviting and comfortable after Crowley’s kind fixes, yet somehow felt desolate and undeserved. 

“It’s the house,” Crowley said, figuring it out. “Living here. You don’t think you deserve it.”

William sighed, the breath thick and heavy. 

“I haven’t felt this before,” he said. “I don’t think I have. I have no idea why I’m feeling it now.”

“Because you’re settling down. While we were traveling, your fate was up in the air. And you did keep stalling. There were a couple of places nicer than this one, but you didn’t want them.”

“They were too far north. And I picked this one quickly enough.”

“Because you felt bad about taking so long. If I were in no hurry to get back to London, would you have decided so quickly?”

“I’m sure I would have.”

Crowley raised a skeptical brow at that. 

“Would you?”

William opened his mouth to deny it again. Then shut it. 

“I can’t be certain.”

“See? You wouldn’t have. We probably would have kept on traveling without you ever making up your mind, leaving your life in limbo, never getting back into a nice house, a nice plot of land with some nice sheep. Do you actually want this?”

“Of course I do. This is all I’ve ever known.”

“That’s a rubbish reason. Heaven was all I ever knew, but I could never live there again.”

“You left heaven six thousand years ago. I only just lost my farm. I’ll get back in the swing of things in no time. This feeling will pass.”

“Will it? If you keep associating your guilt with this land, that doesn’t bode well. We’ll be moving you on somewhere else within a year.”

A noise of frustration escaped William. Moving again after all this trouble, all this emotional upheaval?

“That will not happen,” he said. “I’m not going through this again. And I certainly wouldn’t put you through all the trouble. I will live here, make friends in the village, and if not, I’ll just carry on like I did before. I have plenty of experience with that.”

“Plenty of experience being miserable.”

“What else do you want me to do, then? I cannot go back to the life I had and I cannot countenance having another.”

“I didn’t get you out of prison for you to mope your life away.”

“Why not? It will be far better than what’s waiting for me on the other side.”

“You don’t know what’s waiting for you.”

“Of course I do. We both do. There’s no use denying it.”

Crowley growled in frustration.

“Because the guy you killed just happened to go to hell?”

“Because I killed someone, yes.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you have a way out of that? You’re repenting right now, clearly. I can barely breathe with the shame oozing off you. I’d be shocked if any other demon wanted anything to do with you, much less let you into hell.”

William studied Crowley. He looked ready to give up on William altogether and bolt to London, never to be seen again. Fear shot through William at the possibility before Crowley’s words sank in. It did make logical sense, didn’t it? Or was that just William’s hope skewing his thoughts? Helpless, he looked around for a bench before his knees collapsed. There had to be one in this wretched garden. Who had a garden without a bench in it? Hadn’t he seen one?

“What are you looking for?” Crowley asked. 

“A bench. Wasn’t there one somewhere?”

With a click of Crowley’s fingers, one materialized beside William, the typical metal frame, wooden bench. William sank into it with a grateful sigh, then looked up at the house windows.

“If any of the servants are looking,” Crowley said, “they won’t find anything amiss.”

William had ceased questioning how Crowley managed to turn people’s attention however he wished, the celestial mechanics too complex for his modest, human mind to comprehend, yet a thrill of wonder still shot through him. Was that why he was shivering? When had that started? He was perfectly warm. He shouldn’t be shivering at all. Crowley sat next to him, studying him through the corner of his eyes.

 _I’m alright_ , William wanted to say, but he couldn’t.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said instead. “I want to be happy here. I do.”

“But you think you won’t be.”

It wasn’t a question. William gazed ahead at the ruminating sheep, happily eating away, not a care in the world. What simple, enviable lives they led. 

“Is it,” Crowley continued, “because you think you don’t deserve it? Because that’s not true and I won’t let you think it.”

“I’m getting tired of saying this, but I honestly don’t know. I thought I knew. I had a very clear vision of what my future would be. The plan we’ve had for the last few weeks. This.” He raised his hands, indicating the land around them. “But now I don’t know what to think. It feels too close to Weatherbury and yet not.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? As close to it as you could get?”

“I thought I did. But I’m not sure anymore. I just want to go home, but I can’t. Is recreating a false Weatherbury experience really worth it? It doesn’t feel satisfying in the least.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

William shook his head, embarrassed.

“I’m not going to bother you any further on my account. You’ve gone to so much trouble to get me here.”

“You need to stop worrying about that right now. Stop fussing about me and think about yourself. Be selfish. I’m a demon. I like selfishness.”

“I hardly think that committing more sins is going to help me.”

“Oh, please. Selfishness isn’t a sin. Do you know how many selfish bastards there are up in heaven?”

William smothered a groan. He didn’t want to contemplate how inadequate heaven was if what Crowley sneered about it wasn’t deviously skewed.

“Besides,” Crowley said, “I said that I would get you happily settled and that’s what I’m going to do. It’s too late to backtrack and convince me that that’s the case here, so think of something else.”

“What else? Moving abroad? I suppose I might be able to learn the ways of Americans, but I doubt I’d be happy there, either.”

“How would you know? Have you ever been?”

“I… No.”

“Well, then. Give it a shot.”

“But I don’t want to leave!”

The words burst out of him, loud and painful and raw. Tears stung his eyes and his chest heaved. He was dangerously close to sobbing. He had cried in front of Crowley before, but always managed to keep himself from embarrassing himself completely, yet now it was too difficult. He gripped the armrest, turning away from Crowley, hiding his face as he reached in his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe the treacherous tears away. It hurt. His emotions ached like knives stabbing his flesh. 

“Let it out,” Crowley said, gentle. “Please don’t do that stiff, upper lip thing. Not now. It’s not going to do you any good.”

Of course not. How silly of him, holding back in front of a being who had seen Englishmen weep openly without compunction. If only William had lived in that age, he might have been less restrained, more open to engaging in social discourse, making friends before it had been too late. Or maybe he would have been just as awkward and miserable in his empty manor house. 

A soft breeze blew at his back, ruffling his hair as a dark shape grew in his peripheral vision. Startled, he turned around to see Crowley unfurling his wings and draping one across William’s back. Its touch was soft, yet firm, the wing so large that it could swallow him up completely. Feathers stroked William’s neck, soft and silky, a deep black as dark as a raven’s wing. The instant that the wing touched him, a breath sucked deep into William’s throat, erupting in a violent sob that shook his whole body. He dropped forward, face in his hands, pain washing over him like the fiercest gale. But the wing, Crowley, followed him, wrapping around him like the thickest, warmest of blankets sheltering him from the cold. William’s embarrassment and compunction to cry faded and he let lose a loud sob that rang in his ears, but he couldn’t care less now. 

Tears filled his hands as he cried, long and hard. Crowley’s wing never left his back, it’s weight a precious comfort that he yearned to hold close forever. He reached for it, right hand sliding along his side behind him to touch the tips of his fingers to Crowley’s feathers, fearing that Crowley might retract them, but he was already touching him in a manner more intimate than William had ever experienced before. Human touch, what little he had felt since he was a child with his nanny, couldn’t compare to this. It was like comparing oranges and steaks. Both food, yet so different that they could never be confused. Crowley had touched him before, but it had never felt so encompassing. He wasn’t simply touching the fabric at his back, the skin of William’s nape and hands, or his hair. His touch reached through William’s flesh to his quivering soul underneath, casting a soothing balm over him. Not one to stop his tears, but to encourage them to flow without worrying about those trifling “19th century idiocies”, as Crowley called them. Even as his heart squeezed with loss and helpless confusion, William clung to the anchor that Crowley offered him and he knew deep in his soul that he would be alright. He couldn’t see a future where happiness was possible, yet he knew it was there. Crowley told him so without words. He would make things alright. He would help William. He would always help him.

And he claimed not to be William’s guardian angel? Loath as William was to contradict God in the midst of his existential horror for his eternal damnation, God had been wrong when she cast out Crowley. This was the touch of an angel. William was sure of it. 

The tears dried up, leaving William with a stuffy nose and a soaked face, yet his head felt clearer. Lighter. The oppressive terror in his chest had shrunken to mild anxiety, unpleasant but manageable. As he straightened, Crowley retracted his wing. An odd sound escaped William’s throat, something between a gasp and a whimper. He didn’t want to lose the comfort of Crowley’s touch. Crowley froze, his lower feathers brushing the small of William’s back. At some point, he’d removed his sunglasses, so William could see the full force of his surprise.

“You want me to keep touching you?” he asked, as if the idea were bizarre.

“If-If you don’t mind.” William stuttered despite himself. “Just until I’m more settled, thank you.”

Crowley laid his wing back atop him again. A breath of pleasure and relief relaxed William’s lungs. He’d never been able to breathe as peaceably as he was now, just moments after being mired in despair. That was the power that Crowley held, the celestial wonder of his essence, no matter what he may be now. William was humbled and amazed and so deeply grateful at being so lucky to know him, despite the disastrous circumstances that had brought him here. Who better than a fellow sinner against God to turn him back from the brink of desperation? There was a poetic sense to it. Both wretched. Both held hostage by the cruel twist of a fate that had swept them up like vicious floodwaters, acting on impulse against the unfairness of the world without fully appreciating the terrible consequences until it was too late. 

“Do you feel better?” Crowley asked.

“A lot better, thank you. Am I still oozing guilt?”

“Nowhere near as much, no. You’re back to normal now.”

So Crowley could always feel William’s shame? That was disturbing to contemplate. Could angels sense it, too, or was that strictly a demonic thing? Either way, he didn’t want to make things awkward by pursuing this line of questioning, especially when he finally no longer felt like drowning in the nearest puddle. Crowley’s feathers brushed against William’s nape, soft and silky, and strangely sinful in an entirely different way. He’d much rather focus on them. 

“Thank you for calming me,” he said. “I’m afraid I was panicking rather strongly there. What you did, whatever it was, it really helped.”

“Just a little, demonic trick.”

“It didn’t feel demonic.”

Crowley’s face scrunched the way it always did when William implied that he was doing anything remotely angelic, but he didn’t deny it this time.

“Fine. It’s a holdover from the old days. I wasn’t meant to disrupt train timetables and convince people to throw rubbish out their windows. I was supposed to do other things. Just because I don’t do it on the regular doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”

Despite his bristling, Crowley looked endearingly proud of his ability to soothe a poor, confused murderer who probably didn’t deserve it. William smiled, finding even more comfort by regarding Crowley, who was looking away in what William swore was embarrassment. Watching Crowley always cheered him up. His only friend, and the best companion anyone could ever have, even if he did have a tendency towards bad moods and tripping people as he passed them by. The latter was his job and the former would be too hypocritical of William to complain about given his own tendency towards moroseness, so they were hardly horribly objectionable faults. And he did comfort William so. William dreaded parting from him with a keen pain. How could he live, here or anywhere, without the only person who he could speak to freely? Although, would they part as quickly as William had feared now that Crowley refused to accept William’s protests that he would survive here, even if it wasn’t what he’d hoped for? 

“If I can’t live here,” William asked, “then what am I supposed to do? Where do I go? Go abroad, after all? That still doesn’t appeal to me.”

“How about a holiday? Who knows? Maybe you’ll find somewhere you like. That’s how I found Britain. Wandering around.”

William’s urge to protest further dampened at the reminder that Crowley’s banishment was much crueler than his own, so he mustn’t bemoan too much. And it wasn’t a terrible idea. William had enjoyed traveling during his grand tour. It would certainly clear his head. One could only hope, anyway.

“Perhaps a trip abroad would be a good idea,” he said. “I didn’t get to travel in Spain as much as I would have liked. And perhaps the Americans are not as intractable as I fear.”

“Oh, no, they are. They say what’s on their minds all the time. You’d be scandalized. Might faint dead away.”

A huffing sound that might have been a laugh came out of William’s throat. 

“Good thing I’ve received plenty of practice from you.”

William tried for a lighthearted tone, seeking to escape the dreary ghosts that still ached in his throat. It didn’t quite work. 

“A trip it is,” Crowley said, slapping his hands together. “When are we leaving?”

William gaped at him. 

“You’re going with me? All the way to America?”

Crowley threw his head back, groaning in frustration.

“I know,” William said quickly, “you’ve promised to stay with me until I’m settled. But you really don’t have to. You’ve done far more than anyone has any right to expect. It’s such a long way away.”

“You keep going on about how much I’ve helped you as if I were making such a grand sacrifice. You’re not this onerous burden that I can’t wait to get rid of, William. I like spending time with you. I’m in no hurry to get back to my old, boring life, which I’ll remind you, is eternal. I have literally all the time in the world. If you don’t want me to go with you, then that’s fine, but I really don’t think that’s the case.”

A soft smile brightened William’s face.

“Alright,” he said, more cheerful than he had been in days. “But we’re going to London first.”

Crowley tapped his left hand against his thigh, glancing away.

“He might not be back yet.”

His voice was so low, so full of dread. 

“You fear he might not forgive you?” William asked. 

Crowley hunched his shoulders, still refusing to look his way, but the sinking in his face confirmed William’s suspicion.

“From what you’ve told me,” William said, “the two of you can never be apart for long. You always find a way back to each other. You want to find a way back. You keep saying you want me to be happy. Well, I want you to be happy. And I don’t think you can be until you’ve reconciled with Aziraphale.”

Crowley pursed his lips, but he didn’t deny it. 

“I won’t leave this island until you go to his shop,” William said. “If he’s not there, well, that’s that for now, but you must at least check. Please. For your own sake.”

A tremulous, heavy breath broke through Crowley’s chest. 

“Alright, we’ll go,” he said. 

He might sound like he was been forced to do something atrocious, but William knew that this is what he most wanted in the world. William smiled, relieved beyond measure.


	11. Chapter 11

The sign was gone from Aziraphale’s door, replaced by the more familiar “Closed” sign. A light illuminated the interior, a beacon of either hope or destruction. Crowley couldn’t tell which. William would think he was being ridiculous for even contemplating that it might be the latter, but what did he know? He didn’t know Aziraphale, didn’t know how keenly the angel clung to his heavenly dictates and prohibitions, past experiences notwithstanding. Eight years wasn’t long, but some people changed their minds in a day, an hour, a minute, so who knew what kind of reception Aziraphale might have for him. He might have arrived at the same conclusion that Crowley did before he left London. Aziraphale was likely to sever their association when Armageddon came around, so why not just get it over with now? In which case, Crowley was being a horrible nuisance by being here at all. He should leave before any unpleasantness occurred.

But he couldn’t leave, not with Aziraphale finally no more than mere yards away from him, so close that Crowley could smell him through the door when he flicked out his tongue. He whined, desperate for Aziraphale’s smile, a frown, a roll of his eyes, anything. He felt William’s gaze on his back from across the street, probably wondering why it was taking him so long to knock on the door. It was a simple motion. Just raise your hand and tap. Far easier said than done. 

Crowley raised his hand. The hand stopped. 

_Just do it already, you idiot._

A quick _rat-tat-tat_ later, the hand was back at his side. 

“We’re closed!” 

Crowley gasped at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice coming from inside.

“It’s me, angel,” he said, quickly, yearning, no longer needing to push himself, for he could never turn back now, not after starving for so long. 

Swift steps rushed towards the door, which soon opened, framing Aziraphale. Surprise widened his eyes, which bore into Crowley with a million emotions that took Crowley only a second to parse. Shock, relief, annoyance, and always, every time he saw Crowley after a long gap, even if it was merely the tiniest glimmer in his eyes, the teeniest whisper in his angelic soul, joy to see him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as composed as the typical Englishman who had just been sideswiped by a galloping taxi. 

“Hello, angel.”

Despite himself, a soft smile of relief grew on Crowley’s face. Nerves and exhaustion sapped out of him, energetic joy taking its place. There was no need for words between them to express how glad they were to see each other, how eight years evaporated in a moment as they locked eyes.

“Can I come in?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale hurried back, extending his arm in invitation.

“Please do.”

Aziraphale’s voice was the sweetest balm. Crowley stepped inside, looking around the shop while watching Aziraphale from the corner of his eye as he closed the door. 

“New purchases, I see,” Crowley said, surveying the little changes in the space. 

Most of it remained the same, as Aziraphale wasn’t the sort for redecoration, but two more tables had been added to admit more book towers, as well as an extra shelf to the far back. 

“I brought a wonderful haul from the continent,” Aziraphale said, smiling at the books. “It was quite the trip.”

“I noticed. I’ve been trying to see you for months.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, touched by the revelation.

“Have you?”

Awkwardness creeping up his neck, Crowley wiggled his fingers at his side. It was apology time. Heaven, he hated apologizing. It was so un-demonic.

“Listen,” he said, mouth going dry. “Forget what I said that day. I didn’t mean it.”

Aziraphale’s form tensed. He glanced down uncertainly, hands held nervously up to his chest, right thumb rubbing his knuckles. 

“Nor did I,” he said. “Except for the part about the holy water. I’m not going to give you any.”

“I’m not asking you to. Although you really should, because it would really help me sleep at night if I had any sort of backup plan.”

“If that’s why you’ve come here—”

“Of course that’s not why I bloody came here. I’m trying to apologize here.”

“I appreciate that. It would go a lot better if holy water were never mentioned again.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

With a tired sigh, Aziraphale shut his eyes.

“You’re right,” he said. “Apologies. But can we please agree not to discuss this again?”

Crowley almost protested that he had no intention of using the holy water in any way other than self-defense, but he bit his tongue. The apprehensive weariness in Aziraphale’s face was too much for Crowley to handle. It was ridiculous for him to be thinking what he was thinking, but Crowley was too tired himself to keep fighting over this. 

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t mention the blessed water anymore.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, straight-faced.

Typical of him to miss the pun, but at least he looked more cheerful now, his face softening as he looked at Crowley again, lips widening in a tiny smile.

“I have missed you,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if…”

Well, that was a painful trail off. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Crowley said. “You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

The beatific joy shining in Aziraphale’s eyes made it very clear that he liked it very much indeed. Insides glowing, Crowley fought the urge to preen and grin. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t return sooner, then,” Aziraphale said. “Although I’m sure you’ve been busy enough yourself.”

Aziraphale began drifting towards his office, Crowley close at his heels.

“Not really. It’s been pretty dull most of the year. Except for the last month or so.”

Once, Crowley had wondered how to tell Aziraphale that he had a human twin. But William, who he was sure had once been bursting with yearning to meet Aziraphale, had nixed the idea on the train ride over.

_”I don’t think I should,” he’d said. “The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t feel right.”_

_“Why?”_

_William had frowned, displeased with his own lack of proper explanation._

_“I don’t know how to express it. It’s just a feeling. I’m not sure that I’m meant to meet him. Or that I even want to anymore. Or if I ever really did. Perhaps our appearances are coincidental. Perhaps not. Maybe it’s better not to push it.”_

Crowley hadn’t quite understood what he was on about, but he silently confessed to being relieved by William’s decision. Aziraphale and William were two parts of his life that he’d rather leave separate and unconfused. And it was working. He had stopped comparing William to Aziraphale weeks ago, and he hadn’t thought of William once since he came in until now. 

“What has been happening in the last month?” Aziraphale asks. “Something good, I hope.”

They stopped in the kitchen, where Aziraphale started pouring water into an old kettle that had been made during the Regency. 

“Very good.”

Editing out anything to do with William and Aziraphale’s uncanny resemblance, Crowley began to explain the pleasant madness that had been his winter. As he did so, Aziraphale brewed the tea exactly how Crowley liked it, mixing in a spoonful of milk and two lumps of sugar before handing him his cup. Before long, drinks in hand, settled in their favorite chairs, it felt like no time had passed at all.

`````````````````

As William lingered on the pavement, pressed to a streetlamp to prevent being run over by pushy pedestrians, he questioned his decision not to meet Aziraphale. He stared at the shop door from the moment that Crowley left his side until it opened. William gasped at the figure that appeared. The angel. If he had ever doubted that Aziraphale was an angel, he didn’t do so now. His hair, his clothes, his form were all like in the photograph. He hadn’t changed at all. If Crowley weren’t speaking to him, William might fear him to be a figment of his imagination. Such an extraordinary likeness. He’d thought that examining Aziraphale’s photograph on the trip back to London would prepare him, but he’d been wrong. His knees weakened as he grabbed the lamppost, gaping at the angelic being that stared at Crowley in delighted surprise. But he didn’t possess the mental energy to study the interaction between the two angels, too captivated and humbled by what—who—he was looking at. His body jerked forward, seized by the urge to run across the street, traffic be damned, and behold him up close, touch him, listen to his voice, which Crowley swore was so like his that only those who knew them well would be able to tell them apart. 

But he stayed right where he was. If he went over there now, he’d be intruding on a much belated reunion, ruining the moment between them. This wasn’t about him. The feeling of wrongness still stung in his belly whenever he thought of meeting Aziraphale, of shaking his hand or telling him his name. It didn’t feel right. It almost felt like a mistake, like he wasn’t meant to be here. Aziraphale was Crowley’s. He couldn’t be anything of William’s. He wasn’t meant to be. In his interminable moments of doubt, William had wondered, hoped, egotistically, if his appearance was merely meant to catch Crowley’s attention so that be the guardian angel that he denied being. Was such a thing possible? 

Who knew how God planned things out. Not even the demon he knew could tell him. 

Aziraphale stepped back from the doorway, allowing Crowley to enter. The door shut behind them. The angels were gone from William’s sight. Crowley would return to him, of course, eventually, but it was time for William to leave them to their privacy. 

He had said that he would walk around town and visit the National Gallery, which he had enjoyed during his last trip here, one of the few things that he did like in this overgrown city. And he did do that. But nothing gained his attention for more than a few seconds. Painted color streaked past his eyes in a blur as he passed through the gallery, barely perceiving what he was looking at. He stopped for lunch at some café despite not being hungry and walked St. James Park afterward. That is, until he remembered Crowley mentioning that he often met Aziraphale here. It might have even been where they fought, an unpleasantness that Crowley never disclosed the details of. Feeling like an intruder in a sacred space, William moved on. 

He returned to Crowley’s house a little after nightfall, which left him with far too much time to fill with these brief, winter days. He didn’t expect to see Crowley for a good, long while. Perhaps not even until tomorrow, when Crowley might grimace awkwardly and inform William that he couldn’t accompany him abroad, after all. How could William request that he not stay with Aziraphale after they had been apart for so long? He should insist that Crowley stay. 

But Crowley would never accept that. Demon or not, he was a man of his word. William would never doubt that.

When Crowley returned, five minutes after 11 o’ clock, an ecstatic grin on his face, his first words were,

“We can go anywhere you want now. I could ride this good mood to the end of the universe.”

William smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to finish posting. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! They mean the world.


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